"I just spit into the fan and it came back into my mouth!"
The ultimatum of these tippings and tappings
is worming itself into a squarish knot.
There is a chance, says she, that this may be the last until January. La dernière.
There are hours and hours of forwarding to accomplish in this little scrolly little empty little windowpane, but Ihope.Ihope.Ihope I can speeddemon away.
"Life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness," a very astute classicist by the very name of Joyce said much much earlier in this thick thick season.
So... excerpts? It's one way:
13 June
The air has become a canopy of crystalized moisture, glistening every few moments, when the hints of artificial light (for the sun has stolen away awhile) darts its way through the dark places of the earth; and how has this suddenly become a dark place of the earth?
15 June
"Vive les papas!"
25 June
We sat among chimneys and water towers in the fingerling cove (having averted the camera) and in the tepid orange fog that hung heavy with sweat and life and exhaust(ion); we rested our chins in our hands, and shrank, became very small, as we watched a magnum of time spill out from underneath us; life span of the sparrow soaring through the wintry hall.
1 July
"He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him."
Terrified for my future.
We've got a regular little boy blue today, curled up in a stack of plastic-bagged garden soil. He's gone now, but he lingered there.
4 July
My bests and favorites all conglomerated into the unity of a house.
10 July
Reaping the pleasures of
resource, I sit in my
lonely morning, too soon
interrupted - too soon and
too brutally - by an idling
dad and some haphazard
well-wishes.
My day, sans me, has begun.
I will do my part in sending across the sea bits of myself - pages pocked with fingerprints - to those at home.
19 July
I lay in the escape-artist hours of two and three which especially do count as night, and then I thought of today and the perfect early sustainance hours - for people who rise before the rest - and how generour they are to me, and henceforth to you, and was buzzed to sleep by the blue electronic light.
"Trust Josie! I believe only in facts - no hogwash or fish tales - and facts are what I say!"
-Josie, as stalactites of saliva hang about her lips.
29 July
"I'M CRAZY ABOUT YOU. I HAVE TO BE CAREFUL OF MY IDIOMS BUT YOU KNOW I'M CRAZY ABOUT YOU."
Do I? Until you say it like that it's hard to tell.
Oh, and his eyes are like claymation penguin eyes - beady and frightening.
I childishly point to my elbow and my throat and ask his to back up, and now I will not speak to him anymore.
2 August
We sat with our faces pressed up against the plywood, our eyes drawing lines from head (ours) to toe (theirs). Sitting like that, eye-to-eye with the sole of one's shoe is humbling and graceful, especially when the foot that happens to inhabit that shoe - that shoe that's been worn each day for eight months - the foot that LIVES there, is the very humblest.
M. Sexton is a man. A plain, warm man. And he does things with a guitar and with his voice. But these things, these high pitched, scatting, almost synthesized things are so other-worldly that we NEED to join him in his dissent. His songs are full of open space and motion through it.
Now imagine the same man, once departed from the stage, returning to our longing whistles and percussing, emerging from behind the already scant electrical equipment to sit on a stool, to sing one more song about earthy people making earthy promises, and looking at you, inside your eyes. It may have plugged something in; created a better fit, somehow.
7 August
It was my very beautiful t-shirt.
8 August
Oh yes... today is my twenty-four month anniversary of being very officially enamoured of a very danny boy. I'm waiting in the terminal for him, with an umbrella in my teeth, against a wall, waiting, also, to be asked to move (for some reason - there are hundreds of people sitting against walls).
The sort of excitement that wakes one up out of sleep, and prompts one to write this bit of thrill down - this it why it has been twelvetimestwo months.
10 August
In tow:
-my visa-nificent passport
-a NEW book via a NEW favorite (her name rhymes with chalice)
-the realization that my dusty little life is finally going to have something to do with explosions.
this is not to be construed as odd, but why must alice take her tea in a far off town that is not my own? We could have been small, in striped stockings and yellow hats, filling buckets of frogs and setting them to sea on sunburnt oakleaves?
12 August
"Paul's brain is melting right now... from the game."
-Matt Feeney, age 7
I think that I will leave my book behind, so that the words might steep and ferment and then, on my return I will bottle them neatly. Nope.
Mightn't that be all? for now? for later?
is worming itself into a squarish knot.
There is a chance, says she, that this may be the last until January. La dernière.
There are hours and hours of forwarding to accomplish in this little scrolly little empty little windowpane, but Ihope.Ihope.Ihope I can speeddemon away.
"Life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness," a very astute classicist by the very name of Joyce said much much earlier in this thick thick season.
So... excerpts? It's one way:
13 June
The air has become a canopy of crystalized moisture, glistening every few moments, when the hints of artificial light (for the sun has stolen away awhile) darts its way through the dark places of the earth; and how has this suddenly become a dark place of the earth?
15 June
"Vive les papas!"
25 June
We sat among chimneys and water towers in the fingerling cove (having averted the camera) and in the tepid orange fog that hung heavy with sweat and life and exhaust(ion); we rested our chins in our hands, and shrank, became very small, as we watched a magnum of time spill out from underneath us; life span of the sparrow soaring through the wintry hall.
1 July
"He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him."
Terrified for my future.
We've got a regular little boy blue today, curled up in a stack of plastic-bagged garden soil. He's gone now, but he lingered there.
4 July
My bests and favorites all conglomerated into the unity of a house.
10 July
Reaping the pleasures of
resource, I sit in my
lonely morning, too soon
interrupted - too soon and
too brutally - by an idling
dad and some haphazard
well-wishes.
My day, sans me, has begun.
I will do my part in sending across the sea bits of myself - pages pocked with fingerprints - to those at home.
19 July
I lay in the escape-artist hours of two and three which especially do count as night, and then I thought of today and the perfect early sustainance hours - for people who rise before the rest - and how generour they are to me, and henceforth to you, and was buzzed to sleep by the blue electronic light.
"Trust Josie! I believe only in facts - no hogwash or fish tales - and facts are what I say!"
-Josie, as stalactites of saliva hang about her lips.
29 July
"I'M CRAZY ABOUT YOU. I HAVE TO BE CAREFUL OF MY IDIOMS BUT YOU KNOW I'M CRAZY ABOUT YOU."
Do I? Until you say it like that it's hard to tell.
Oh, and his eyes are like claymation penguin eyes - beady and frightening.
I childishly point to my elbow and my throat and ask his to back up, and now I will not speak to him anymore.
2 August
We sat with our faces pressed up against the plywood, our eyes drawing lines from head (ours) to toe (theirs). Sitting like that, eye-to-eye with the sole of one's shoe is humbling and graceful, especially when the foot that happens to inhabit that shoe - that shoe that's been worn each day for eight months - the foot that LIVES there, is the very humblest.
M. Sexton is a man. A plain, warm man. And he does things with a guitar and with his voice. But these things, these high pitched, scatting, almost synthesized things are so other-worldly that we NEED to join him in his dissent. His songs are full of open space and motion through it.
Now imagine the same man, once departed from the stage, returning to our longing whistles and percussing, emerging from behind the already scant electrical equipment to sit on a stool, to sing one more song about earthy people making earthy promises, and looking at you, inside your eyes. It may have plugged something in; created a better fit, somehow.
7 August
It was my very beautiful t-shirt.
8 August
Oh yes... today is my twenty-four month anniversary of being very officially enamoured of a very danny boy. I'm waiting in the terminal for him, with an umbrella in my teeth, against a wall, waiting, also, to be asked to move (for some reason - there are hundreds of people sitting against walls).
The sort of excitement that wakes one up out of sleep, and prompts one to write this bit of thrill down - this it why it has been twelvetimestwo months.
10 August
In tow:
-my visa-nificent passport
-a NEW book via a NEW favorite (her name rhymes with chalice)
-the realization that my dusty little life is finally going to have something to do with explosions.
this is not to be construed as odd, but why must alice take her tea in a far off town that is not my own? We could have been small, in striped stockings and yellow hats, filling buckets of frogs and setting them to sea on sunburnt oakleaves?
12 August
"Paul's brain is melting right now... from the game."
-Matt Feeney, age 7
I think that I will leave my book behind, so that the words might steep and ferment and then, on my return I will bottle them neatly. Nope.
Mightn't that be all? for now? for later?