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Dew on the grass
Cows standing one by one wondering what I’m up to.
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My ambition for a day often exceeds it but yesterday was a rush of compound successes, and then, slow and steady, shall we put it?
The roots of my appreciation for surreal is now clear: continuous exposure to non sequitur.
-Any questions? asks nurse,
-Can you have cola? asks mom
-You like soft drinks, do you?
-No never have it, answers mom.
-Then why did you ask?, asks nurse, laughing.
Conversation always veering to random play. Non-narrative accumulation. Other patients found the randomness (or knowledge for knowledge sake?) charming and funny. An interpretation I hadn’t considered.
I’m used to her in the context of her being micromanaged, dismissed, lead, and bullied by family. Her hospital roommate said “you’re mom’s my hero. She’s one smart cookie” and they’re getting on great.
Her friend’s husband chatted with me on the phone which never happened before. They’ve been friends 25 years, about as long as I’ve been away from home. A good portion of a lifetime.
Barry McKinnon interview broken over several segments. In part 6 he related an audience question, “do you write traumatic monologues?”
Creeley said “I write short poems because my wife keeps walking into the room. These are not profound metaphysical arguments but they are real.”
McKinnon observes “A lot of theoretical writing doesn’t lead me anywhere”.
What did I get out of reading that?
That question is tacked to my mental bulletin board. Sometimes all I gain is bitterness and rancour because I want the salient but in that sweet spot not what I already have confirmed.
With some reading it’s with hopes of getting hooks to get something that comes later, some way to anchor to something said by someone I have yet to meet. Sometimes I don’t have any way to grasp. It’s to prepare to leapfrog. It isn’t comforting to hear what I already believe. A diet of irony and poking isn’t complete. Colbert Report is long gone but Last Week Tonight with John Oliver could get taxing eventually. It’s still the same thing of news, seeking eyeballs, consumption.
Reading science and history helps. Doing physical work helps but still my bullshit meter is buzzing more than the cat meows.
I suppose I can see my shakes for web-contact since I’m busy, and out of wifi range, and my iphone kacked so I’m back to twitch-reach gesture. I finally have systems to compose shopping list and poem parts on it. On the other hand I found my notebook, but I can’t keyword search paper. Except with eyes.
Lastly, I don’t understand ‘male footwear’ Are there no cobblers? Do shoes come covered with functional penises? And that’s where soles come from…
So much desire to do the yardarm-length wish list, but brain and body are all heavy impediments instead of implements.
I won’t even show what riot the sow weed is up to out there. The kale is doing decently tho.
Yesterday I was up, zoom-zoom. Then I crashed into a nearly 4 hour afternoon nap. Which didn’t prevent my 8 hours last night. More military nightmares of POW camps and escapes. All the joints are stiff. Stretching. I have over a dozen library books out and can’t see it being absorbed.
Ah, kvetch broadcast over in 10-9-8…
Time to cook mom lunch. She’s with us for
2 days a day before her heart surgery. Admission is 2 days ahead.
Comments Off on Meanwhile in the parlour
Bright white summer, from pear and potato blossom to teeny ones,
One despairs of the world when talking to people, reading, being online but hands in the dirt gives energy back, even when tearing life out by the roots. A halt is called where there’s a patron saint snail or ladybug of course, the protector saints of weeds. Land on me and bless me too.