Fleabus and me last night. I've been manic of late, I know. Barking has peaked this cycle (I know when these cycles peak, there's a bark I want back, yesterday this time, I...). Descent to dark was apace already, but today my goddamn eye this, my fucking job that, and then I click on Washington Post article on shooting in Charlestown church, it's white on black so it's a deranged loner, not an entire religion or race or civilization (as when visa versa). I click on the photos slideshow option, Washington Post demands I watch a 30 second commercial for big screen TVs before showing the photos, and fuck that... The variety of flavors of rage coursing through me - and at me via me - tell me it's time to shut the fuck up, at least for today.
[It was Jessica Grim the American poet]
It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from the daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions —
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,