Month: August 2003

SILK FLOWERS (for Nemo)

Surge after surge, growls

the sea-mew, Now giddy youth

unconfined hinges

A philosophic

melancholy the toiling

boundless Shows your broad

To scatter ruin

taleful, bled meddling senses

run your giddy round

bellying clouds pant

Stagger with dizzy aim, snares,

bliss! The sacred shades

Rouse the wild game, creak

arts and arms, to snow congealed

the well-poised hornet

leaden-coloured food

while the tyrant bled; with looks

of dumb despair dis-

jointed visions bro-

ken slumbers never-fading

brave, Sleep, frighted, flies

Sullen and sad, nursed

deluge floats with silvered cares

yellow-robed! I’ll sing

Those last entries are for a novel I’m writing about a blog. I mean, this life is just research for a novel, right?

I am so tired of reality. Reality is just sooooooooooooooo an imposition.

i realize that last entry makes it sound like i’m a witch. it’s just that he’s been crying for 40 minutes & is not responding to anything i do to comfort him: rocking, singing, nursing (just kidding). But i’m at a breaking point. i put a dvd in the player & retreated to the bathroom with my laptop, where a door and running water gave me a enough piece of mind to write this out.

A Drama Queen

The Pipsqueak had another of those screaming terror crying jags (I think he keeps reliving his circumcision, heretofore known as That Horrid Medical Procedure). I massaged him and sang to him, and he finally calmed down. All in all, we had a nice dinner.

He’s been having really strange crying jags recently. About every other night, out of the blue, he cries really hard for 4 or 5 seconds, then it goes away. Bizarre. I’m curious what it means.

Of course, he’s just as much a drama queen as me, and has never been shy about his emotions. He reminds me of R. Kelly, mixing soft-porn come-ons with crying jags about his mother, ex-girlfriends and professional failures.

I did a google search of his symptoms and I think he’s pregnant.

Sorrow Without a Cause

Krishnamurti asks:

Is there a relationship between sorrow and passion? Is there such a thing as sorrow without a cause? We know the sorrow which is cause and effect. My son dies; in that is involved my identification with my son: my wanting him to be something which I am not, my seeking continuity through him. When he dies all that is denied, and I find myself completely emptied of all hope. In that there is self-pity, fear; in that there is pain which is the cause of sorrow. This is the lot of everyone. This is what we mean by sorrow.

Then there is also the sorrow of time, the sorrow of ignorance, the ignorance of one’s own destructive conditioning; the sorrow of not knowing oneself, the sorrow of not knowing the beauty that lies at the depth of one’s being and the going beyond.

Do we see that when we escape from sorrow through various forms of explanation, we are really frittering away an extraordinary happening?

….

When there is no movement of escape from sorrow, then love is. Passion is the flame of sorrow, and that flame can only be awakened when there is no escape, no resistance — which means, sorrow has in it no quality of division.

“Do you ever get tired of being yourself?”

“Of course. That’s when I stop.”

SILK FLOWERS (for Bernadette)

faint for lack of food

Cold! cold! My thread is small, it

gleamed like odorous

fire She ceased her spin-

ning heavy and uniform

sore with the frost cheek

with her prey She Bear

is gone O Stranger, strain! be

She beheld and laugh’d

She heart-reviving

arrow-plumes were iced The song

I thank thee, thank thee

Arose, commixt with

flush bright thread The youth sate low

and sweet the silkworm’s

Sister! Sister! hear

A lock of his raven hair

And yet her hair ask’d

grey. his languid limbs

took the quiver from his neck

The woman answer’d

wondrously thin ob-

served thy strength By magic hands

binding in the chain

SILK FLOWERS (for Drew)

pierce windless ivy

cloud of dew through which its mate

bends, and then fades frail

music-panting bliss

till some new strain of feeling

is anemone

That climbs and wanders

another swinging blossom

blown anew; from high

those depths Is curtained

interwoven bowers aught

along earth-creeping

melody The sweet

weak wings And all the woods are

Sick through mossy air

Down streams made strong awe

lake-surrounded listener’s

brain So sweet, that joy

echoes impels them

eddies talk sucked fatal flute

soft emotion grew

Nor sun, nor moon

sadness fails voluptuous

cedar, pine, and yew,

Brenda Iijima writes in:

yo!

waz up dah down side gal or girl?

yr marguez waz affected or effecting someting ’cause this nucleic blog stuf is rocked with hardSHIPPING. Did this fellow Curtis prepare the dinner or somthin’? Kick him in his papaya asszzzz.

get on that orange girl

don’t hate yorsellllf, it’s bad for the curls!

B

really now!

If the blog world were a commune, who would be cooking tonight? Who would be doing the dishes?

My guess:

Cooking: Joshua. Fast food metaphors for his students but fancy recipes for friends. No, maybe it ought to be someone with a stronger sense of equality. This is, after all, a commune. Katie to the rescue.

Dishes: Jim.He’s much sweeter than he lets on.

Eileen is also onto the Language Poets’ lack of artifice.