Sunday, January 13, 2008
But you seem to’ve found me the common home of all my obsolete manifestoes and tentative loves, works in imitation and panic swims, by water and boulders there, gone sawmill and unused tracks grown over with blackberries, Queen Anne’s lace, imperialist Scotch broom, beer cans, kingfishers, rusty bolts, asters, a punk masterpiece painted over with municipal beige, and, with the turn of summer, wooly mullein spearing up tall as a tall woman. Went through 5 pairs of socks, 3 pairs of shoes, and finally dad’s rubber boots today. “Moving over the face of the waters.” Blake sticks to the limitations of the human––“portions of eternity too great for the eye of man,” a cloud as man, a flea as man, god as a boy. Such a strange ungrounded cleverness when she starts doing things! Now, idiotically, humiliatingly, I seem to have lost the scarf Michaela made for me––either at the library or on the bus. Last night she sang me the song she wrote about emptying the jar into the water.