Monday, July 30, 2007
"You die a thousand deaths in a private secret life, for no one knows what you do, what you love, and of course others are doing it, as with song, and you always hear this and die some more. And you usually wind up converting the private life into some other form, a form which will allow the secret life to remain a secret, yet will still feed the new form. With me it was writing. The cost of the conversion was immense--it is twenty-five years later and I am only beginning to realize the cost, even as I write here, to it, for the first time. For the conversion calls for still another layer of identity which often (although, I agree, not always) obscures the real even more. It is layer upon layer. Identity to one's self, others, identity to one's hat--my hat the writing hat, my arm the arm of memory--now I prefigure a drawing of a man whose arm is abstract, but active--and who has a hat for a head! And where is the heart? A secret mark, breathing still, what a miracle!"
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
My messy nature.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I'm not sure if this is Washington or Oregon. They kind of run together, like Michiana. Maybe they call it Washegon or perhaps Orington. Anyway, Gene says it's nice, like the U.P. but bigger.
In other news, get over to Jesus' blog (link on the left). He's had a story accepted to an online publication, Shine. Yes, I know, I'm not giving the links. If you just go to Jesus' blog (on the left) you'll see it all.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The kids, of course, were beautiful, too. They can hear the music and they have to dance. They just run out there. Kennedy's Kitchen threw away the set list so the kids could keep dancing. That's grace. Amen. I would tell you about the clouds and the trees, but you already know.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The writers' thing was good. I can never hear all the voices I want to, but what can you do? Just being together with everyone infiltrates my skin. I'm porous, it all seeps in. David and Talia have other details on their blogs, if curiosity is killing you. Of course, if curiosity is killing you it means you weren't there and you should have been. Blah, blah, blah.
If it's my fault that you weren't there because I schedule these things during the day, I'm going to try and bend a little. The next one will be in the evening. So there. Maybe by tomorrow I'll decide on a day. The choices seem to be the 24th, 25th, 26th. I will use my trusty dart if no one speaks up.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
We dream differently,
faces to the ground listening
for the tremble of the water table
set for who knows who?
It’s flowing through this earth
and that earth, weaving the earths together
into a primordial ooze. This is a mythology.
Who knows what is true?
In my dreams you are naked
and bleeding; you have three children;
you are a black butterfly; we argue.
I am a tree.
Feeling you move.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Hold on - what's that I hear? A cat hacking, puking on my carpet, again. I am throwing her outside, she is fighting me, sticking her claws in the screen. Just a minute. I'm sure I can find something to take to a foreign country for a year.