Saturday, February 11, 2017

i would be eight people each inhabiting the others' dreams

I've stopped writing in tablets. I write here still but not to the exclusion of writing there. I've never not wrote there, I take days off here. Nothing written in a tablet for eight days. I was in Montgomery Mall yesterday to get my glasses straightened, just down the upper terrace from store I bought my glasses a tiny pen & ink joint, I instinctively veered in, looked for good new colors of fountain pen ink, this burnt pink is excellent, twenty-five fucking dollars, I.... haven't written in tablets for eight days, nine by the time you read this. I'm more fascinated it took me eight days to notice I hadn't written in tablet in eight days than fascinated I haven't written in tablet in eight days.

  • I've always suffered reading slumps but I've never suffered one of such glut. I am 2/3rds through and stalled on twelve and counting novels. The latest, Rachel Cusk's Outline followed the same pattern as all the others: This Will Save Me! what? fuck me. The twelve include three of my bibles. Fuck them.
  • Poems still work, though I can't read more than one poem by one poet at a time.
  • If music ever stops working I'm doomed.
  • The Last Days in Aleppo.
  • The burnt pink ink looked excellent. I didn't buy it. Victories where you can find them.
  • Bannon hearts Moldberg. Of course he does.
  • AmRen and suits & ties.
  • How Democrats made DeVos possible.
  • Eraducation. DeVos sucking doesn't mean education doesn't need fixing.
  • Trump and the Resistance.
  • Avoid eye contact.
  • On Tom Raworth, I Serendipitously posted one his poems yesterday.
  • Serendipitously, Raworth died  two days before I posted his poem, which means I actually added the poem to the post on the day he died. The fuck?
  • Serendipity giveth and taketh away, but always be Blessed.


Tom Raworth

i would be eight people and then the difficulties vanish
only as one i contain the complications
in a warm house roofed with the rib-cage of an elephant
i pass my grey mornings re-running the reels
and the images are the same but the emphasis shifts
the actors bow gently to me and i envy them
their repeated parts, their constant presence in that world

i would be eight people each inhabiting the others’ dreams
walking through corridors of glass framed pages
telling each other the final lines of letters
picking fruit in one dream and storing it in another
only as one i contain the complications
and the images are the same, their constant presence in that world
the actors bow gently to me and envy my grey mornings
i would be eight people with the rib-cage of an elephant
picking fruit in a warm house above actors bowing
re-running the reels of my presence in this world
the difficulties vanish and the images are the same
eight people, glass corridors, page lines repeated
inhabiting grey mornings roofed with my complications
only as one walking gently storing my dream


  1. Visual Art? You live within visiting distance of some great collections (National Gallery, Phillips; Newseum) and plenty of galleries. Others might be a trek (never been to the Frick or Gardener, and Manhattan's its own art island).

    Just my two Pfennings. I'm a painter at heart so I go to other sides of Munsell's wheel looking for complimentaries when stuck. Music's good also, but you got that covered, I think.

    1. This wasn't intended as a woe-is-me, though Lord knows I've posted some woe-is-me here (I just changed the two *upset* to *fascinated*.)

      I'm not worried about it. Before I stopped I was writing in circles and unpacking boxes best understood when boxed up. Things happening so fast there's no time to write in background but I was writing in unnecessary background. Was no fun - that's the whole of it. It'll come back.

  2. Gottverfluchten Bloggo won't allow "Reply". No woe! Just what it is; but, paint on canvas or paper can be good, except when, you know, it ain't.

    1. That's what I *do* in tablet, canvas-wise.

      I'm caught between the gears of fake and kayfabe is all. Something will come of it.