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.
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