I’m down to my last bottle of fountain pen ink left over from my brief affair with fountain pens and tablets a decade ago before returning to my (currently, temporarily for now at least, and voluntarily if not deliberately abandoned) pencil spouse, the gorgeous brick red ink above infused in clear elmer’s glue, grated chalk blazes better on fountain pen ink than acrylic ink: fountain pen ink > acrylic ink, yo. I have an online ink-store’s cart filled with options, I’m just waiting for this weird, strangely pleasant and surprising and barely worrisome bout of calm and – get this – itchy but unscratchable optimism, about what I don’t know, to fade before purchasing, much less committing to use, the ink
Not being anxious about not being anxious over the ever-enshittifying clusterfuck, shit getting worse exponentially by the day, and I've a vague unscratchably itchy and thoroughly unplanned for optimism, this is new, it will fade. Doesn't feel like resignation, capitulation, surrender, much. A week before this started I gave myself permission to admit that I'm old and will probably die and I apologized to my knees and ankles for their belly-aching after another weekend of hiking and disc golf and asked knees and ankles to forgive me not only for the tens of thousands of miles I've asked of them over the decades but also to forgive me for blaming them for their aching. Rosie dying is a variable too. I was reminded too that I love Modest Mouse, they've been on the daily sound track for the last two and a half weeks, I recommend you try. While I have no plans and will keep my brain off this itchy optimism as best I can and let it run it's course with this sentence I've no doubt jinxed this and fucked it up and unappeasable anger at my futility before the clusterfuck returns soon
THE NEW OPTIMISM
Dean Young
The recital of the new optimism
was oft interrupted, rudeness
in the ramparts, an injured raven
that needed attendance, pre-op
nudity. The young who knew everything
was new made babies who unforeseeably
would one day present their complaint.
Enough blame to go around but the new
optimism didn’t stop, helped one
pick up a brush, another a spatula
even as the last polar bear sat
on his shrinking berg thinking,
I have been vicious but my soul is pure.
And the new optimism loves the bear’s
soul and makes images of it to sell
at fair-trade craft fairs with laboriously
knotted hunks of rope, photos of cheese,
soaps with odd ingredients, whiskey,
sand, hamburger drippings, lint,
any and everything partaking of the glowing
exfoliating cleanup. And the seal
is sponged of oil spill. And the broken
man is wheeled in a meal. War finally
seems stupid enough. You look an animal
in the eye before eating it and the gloomy
weather makes the lilacs grow. Hello,
oceans of air. Your dead cat loves you
forever and will welcome you forever home.
from nonmeatbased informationprocessing conversation system gemini:
ReplyDeleteThe Silken Tent: Haiku Series starting from Robert Frost's sonnet
* **I.**
A silken tent stands,
Midday summer breeze soft blows,
Ropes let go their grip.
* **II.**
Dew dried on the cloth,
The canvas gently sways now,
Resting at its ease.
* **III.**
Cedar pole holds high,
Pinnacle to heaven points,
Sureness of the soul.
* **IV.**
No one rope supports,
Bound by countless silken ties,
Love and thought connect.
* **V.**
To all the wide earth,
Held loosely,
freely it stands,
Strictly bound by none.
* **VI.**
Air shifts,
one tie pulls,
Slightest bondage felt a moment,
Summer light and free.
---
The Tent of the Soul - in the style of dr seuss
Oh, the **SHE** is a tent,
a soft, silken sight,
On a noon-time so sunny,
a wonderful light!
When the dew that was damp
is all dried from the grass,
And the ropes (the taut guy-lines)
have let the stress pass.
They **RELENT**!
They are loose!
Now the tent can sway wide,
With a gentle soft sway
to the breeze's soft tide.
But the pole,
the tall **CEDAR**,
it stands straight and grand,
The central support
in this summer-time land.
It's a pinnacle, see,
soaring up to the blue,
A sign of the soul
that is steady and true!
It seems not to **OWE**
to a single taut string,
To a single cord's PULL,
or a single small thing.
No, it's held by the **HUNDREDS**!
By threads fine and small,
By silken-soft ties
that encompass it all!
Ties of **LOVE** and of **THOUGHT**,
they are bound to the ground,
To every grand thing
that the compass goes 'round.
And only when summer air
chooses to **SHIFT**,
And capriciously gives
the whole structure a lift—
Does a *single small thread*
just go ever so TAUT,
And the tent is aware
of the bondage it's caught!
anthropic's "claude" gives us this cleaned up and rhymed version of dean young's offering
ReplyDeleteHope Springs Eternal
Though life brings interruptions, troubles at the door,
The power of hope helps us carry on once more.
The young grow wise, bring children to embrace,
Each generation finds its special place.
When burdens weigh us down and times seem cold,
Hope lifts the brush, helps steady hands take hold.
Even creatures struggling, souls both pure and true,
Remind us love persists in all we do.
At markets filled with crafts both quaint and dear,
We celebrate the kindness drawing near.
The broken world gets mended, day by day,
As caring hands wash all the hurt away.
We learn at last that gentleness is right,
And storms we weather make our flowers bright.
Breathe deep the air, embrace each precious day,
The love we've known will never fade away.
Your dear sweet cat still loves you from above,
Waiting at heaven's gate with endless love.
With warmest wishes for brighter days ahead