Monday, February 27, 2012

mondaynote



I can’t stand it. I might have gone my whole life without looking up ‘nulliparous’.

I can stand it. No sheepishness for me. I’m a master of stoicality (whatever).

You can make such lovely images of your day. Or be so funny, then heartrending.

Your foot documentation lives!

I thank the gods you crossed my path.


Thursday, February 23, 2012

taken away to “anywhere right now”



What point is there to life, if I can’t write freely? What point is there to writing, if I can’t tell you how happy I am this morning?

You admire my restraint? Bad, bad girl. You’re like a cat not wanting little booties on its paws. Kittys should be open hearted?

I’m a knitter, too, inwordly.

You can be the most delightful person I’ve ever met my whole life.

Call that a failure of my youth?

Yeah, I can live with that, for there’s always tomorrow, years ahead, and fiction.



Friday, February 17, 2012

I.M. from paradise



The weather in Berkeley today is gorgeous. My health is excellent.
My investments are doing well. And I’m surrounded (Caffè Strada)
by bright people, buds, and birds. All in all, I’m living at
the Best Place on Earth.

I told a friend once that, if I were wealthy, I wouldn’t admit it.
Likewise, if I were gifted.

Well, I’ll violate my principle once: I’m gifted.
So, I take a bad view of others’ presumptive reading
of my prevailing humility as weak spine.


Wednesday, February 15, 2012

all but forgotten



Exactly 30 years before I was born, on June 16, many persons married, surely, if not resolutely.


Wednesday, February 08, 2012

dark blue bow



“A man or boy who goes frequently or steadily with a” fiction or is
“in an intimate relationship with a” story is so free there to say, for

example, you

are intrinsically funny, beautifully

so, painfully



So, let’s not tarry here, but love going on

with the story, as freely there as

I want



later




Sunday, February 05, 2012

in transit



Gently, though freely, I want this blog to remain worthwhile, so I’m not going to fabricate reasons to post just to stay in touch. I’m easy to contact by email. I couldn’t bear to orient my life around Facebook or spend lots of time Tweeting. Geez.

Part of what I’m doing today is organizing a year’s worth of sundry jottings and archived articles that are unrelated to current events (or indirectly related). I’m organizing it all into topics I’ll flesh out. It’s like sketching lots of works-to-do.

It includes coming across things I’d forgotten, like a poem by Wallace Stevens, “The Wind Shifts,” that affects me deeply to discover again. It must have affected me deeply back when, though I can’t remember finding it.

He’s despairing; I am not. And we are not like the carelessness of the wind. Yet we must live with those who are like the wind. And changes of time may surprise like a break of focus in a narrating line.

I think of this time next year, when I’ll have “retired” from my department—which will be a rebirth!

Years back, I’d drive across the U.S. on impulse, when I was unencumbered. What adventures I have to recount someday! More to come.

I don’t have a list of places on the skin of the Earth I want to find, but I can improvise easily. There’s so much writing I need to do. I’ve never visited my birthplace: Savannah (which my parents left when I was 6 months). There’s so much I’ve not lived yet.



The Wind Shifts
Wallace Stevens

This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.
The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.
The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.