Driving through Chesterfield yesterday, or was it two days ago (actually it was three days now that I stop to think about it) we heard peepers right where the speed limit drops from 40 to 25 and the little farm is still for sale. Which I hear now as well, early before the sun rises, desperate - I think that is actually the right word - for words to come. So not just rising temperatures, and mud, but now this. Audible Spring.
Hejinian making the point repeatedly about loving writing - just the physicality of it, writing words ("writing writing"). And yesterday I drifted fast through the Stones essay until I had no idea where it was, or where I was in it, what it was becoming, what it had become, et cetera. The words tend to arrive on the page (fall backwards out of the cursor, whatever) with relative ease - it's arranging them that's hard. Or trusting them, I guess.
"The poet in the ancient matrix of texts . . . " A helpful elocution, yet opaque once severed from its native sentences, transplanted here.
It's via Henry Gould, who I can't read right now even though I want to, intensely, because I can't afford to buy books and his aren't in any of the local libraries. I am nobody's literary heir (or air, or hair), and there will be no bequests to save me but still.
In this chair there's a star I see every morning. But is it the same star and would I know. I like the clarity of its blue light, all blue light. With the storm windows up the traffic on Route 112 - the traffic leaving town - is louder, sadder-sounding.
Jeremiah calls daffodils "daffies." Moose prints going south on the trail. We were walking north, always north. You write but as always it's a matter of what else do you do.
Post a Comment