10.30.09 entry

Late tea. How are things? I haven't seen you in ages! That's how we rattle it off.

What shall I write on this morning? How much time do I have? Is that it? We can think about in, see us running through the park, beside the pond, atop a strawberry top, barked by dogs, bicyclists, babies in prams, art museums. In my head, I see an exchange of sites. Here one day in lieu of being there the other day. The temporal distance becomes a fuzzy haze that compromises definition and plants a mustard seed of doubt that begins slowly to burn away all historical certainly. You were not there, and neither was I. That did not happen as you describe it. Really, that did not happen at all. You imagined it. All of it. Where you felt you experience this, cultivated that memory, collect that array of images, you now know that nothing but an ugly discoloured stain holds that place in your consciousness. To think that some kind of act occurred is pure futility.

A sleeping newborn is truly beautiful to see. Often the lack of teeth comes as a surprise, at times a naked shock.

I just napped. It's essential, napping, particularly when there is nothing else to do.

It's nearly coffee time this morning. I'm excited. The cotton will be flushed away from my mind, that's the dream. I can't remember last night's dream. Must have been forgettable. Friday should be movie night. Drag me to the cinema Friday, they should call it. Are there any films currently playing that are actually something more than entertainment? I like to believe I can demand more edifying forms of art here in America, and have my wishes fulfilled. My thinking may be wish fulfillment fantasies. Rather I should search my house for something to read !

I do have a book called The Gift, Lewis Hyde's work on "Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World." An excellent read, regardless that his modern world was 1979. Something can be learned from the text, I feel certain about it. The matter at hand then is to fully commit myself to digging through the information. Hyde's writing is flawless and belled, that is most certain. Who reads this kind of book these days, aside from humdrum academics and social anthropologists? I search for books that embrace me, books to fall in love with. To me, books worth valuing are those that somehow alter my phenomenal world and inspire my mind and spirit atonement. Word.

morning thursday pdf

I do hope that my digital camera re-surfaces soon. Time to take another sip of tea. How many does that make now? All of the images and video clips taken over two weeks in Europe were in that camera and its little storage pouch. Three memory cards totaling 7 gigs of information. I hope Camille recovers it from her car. Otherwise, it will be official: the gods are conspiring against me to erase all memory of my existence, both visual and literary, from this earth's historical record. What terrible luck! Is luck involved, to inquire frankly? Bad luck's cards could be in play here. Misfortune, misadventure, mistakes. Something is clearly missing. It's my brain, that much is certain. I can only place the blame squarely on my own head. More accurately, the absence of it. Such is my life, after all is said and done. Such as it is. I am cloaked in abusive forgetfulness. Yet I am mere mortal, truth be told. That's encouraging, at least, for the moment. Until the tea runs dry, until I'm fully resigned, forced to fill the silence with music and chocolate.

A friend informed me that I have blogged only once this entire year. This entry makes it two. He obligated me to do something about that dismal stat. Only once, and here it's almost November. The month of ill writings, the month of coughing and nose-blowing. A phlegmatic month. He sent me an e-mail linking up to a blog he recently started, so I checked it out and was both very impressed by the quality of writing and mildly disappointed by its content. The discussion was about film-making, cinematography, and camera work, all interesting and informative material, mind you. Some reflex in me, oddly enough when I reflect on it, somehow assumes personal blogs to be precisely that-personal. Intimate, self-conscious, revelatory. I must be crossing blogs with journals and diaries in my thoughts. Granted, I'll be returning to the blog soon enough and have another go at reading it, this time more thoroughly. That is, more ponderously and with a clear head and strong cup of coffee. In the morning, additionally. I like blogs. Every once in a while, writing one or two might just be the difference, that inch or two of relief, that every sentient being needs. The line is nearly always attainable, within reason.

on the icy road

Here in Stockholm, waiting for Sofia to be released into the park from school. She started school this fall, & she's got many years to go before being freed from the education years. Young one, yes she is.

It's cold and colorful outside. Gray skies, blue skies. I am a small measure reluctant to venture, even for the Konditori to read my Harper's. It was the first time I picked up this magazine. Why now, I don't know for certain. Perhaps out of boredom, perhaps I was victimized by advertising, perhaps memory. There are two articles that piqued my interest. One about the pot industry in California, the other about AIG.

I made espresso, strong, with milk and sugar.

Both gladness and relief feel me as I write again. I like this sense.