February 18, 2015 § Leave a comment
I tried writing on the way to work on the train and there was nothing at all, and nothing too on the way home, almost I could stare each passenger out.
No books either in the bookstore that want me to read them and my brother did not talk to me at the weekend.
I don’t mean this though for self pity. Actually the overwhelming emotion is of humiliation, self-created.
We watch Empire Records and I to be honest enjoy it, and luckily my friends are learning quickly to turn their backs as I cool down.
You are, I never knew you less or I realise, how little. Bravery, do you understand it? I want to read some kid’s book or anyway, some text with no thing between the meaning and my brain, just the easiest words to go in straight.
It’s time to double the nights, catch up on sleep, turn my skin opaque again.
Mother, she urges me not to shoot after happiness nor to hope after it, even though I’ve concerned myself not with that but with living or, being interested.
Sometimes we advise happiness, the wanted thing, and keep for ourselves our own sense of justice and moral obligation. And that is why I am taking History.
Anthony, an acquaintance, quotes to me the citation in Birdman of Carver, essentially the individual in question’s ultimate wish to have been beloved upon Earth. When first he sent it I didn’t think so much of it but now, well, the problem is that it must be mutually allowed, and my body and my mind have closed up like a snapped clasp and even now I’m tired and relaxed it isn’t, and who knows if it will get the chance to open again.
I wish I never laughed unduly and laughed more at myself. I wish that I would learn to dance, but I had been too scared to and you weren’t, that time on Southbank. And I’m scolded for that; for my distance from childhood, for my foolish pent-up nature, disallowing myself.
It’s not ourselves but our ideas of ourselves, that block. But my idea of myself had been nothing
To be, an assertion (negated)
February 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
I struggle to wake this morning, first time in weeks. Take it for a good sign, terrestrial. I have missed my body
In my dream, I recall just the end, I yelled at the woman No, I can’t deal with that right now,
when she asked would I make the aubergine. And it’s odd, because I had not understood it for urgent.
I think it must be lonely to be a mathematician. I wouldn’t want to do it.
Maybe I need faces more than the mathematician does. I don’t know.
Now there is a new flower, a tall one that I am only half sure is real.
There are little clips keeping those long stems up and they make me wince
No, I haven’t got to enjoying meat yet.
I like it when,
meeting people, they try to decipher nationality.
Maltese, but also Icelandic
Not French and not Scandinavian and who knows what, but a little Irish at least, at least something not English
Still, nothing can go fast enough,
so this morning was a false start.
[It is our borderzones where it is created.] — No, ‘border’ is wrong; too hard, too set, too bounded. It is more like the liminal
The world likes us to be confident.
January 28, 2015 § Leave a comment
I’m in awe of you also.
I could not tell you that, because I am older than you, so less pure.
Today I walked to the station with Jo(h?)n, and we talked, and I realised my shirt and my trousers and my voice. I talked too fast and I dropped the word ‘manipulate’ and I wish I hadn’t. He picked up on that and, I explained it: catholic guilt. conditioning. My parents are
The real explanation might be a sense never of having merited, always of displacement, eternal debt, fraud. How ever do we earn the beauty to which we are witness? we do not.
I wish I were 18, but with this head and not that before. Part of this mind (but I question that, unsure), and the clarity. do not revere me. I am nothing.
My body aches, my throat stings. Last night, walking, I thought about what it was to be called strong, and that there was no thing good in it. And then this afternoon about war, because Jo(h?)n talked about men and war when we talked about women and subjection. He said that men were trained not to feel, but more eloquently. The simple difference of physical strength.
I am happier than I can recall, even without an understanding of happiness
January 26, 2015 § Leave a comment
It is time again for greater sincerity and care, in choosing words. I had thought it might be time for silence, but that could be failure, is only to submit. Today I met someone lovely and I was grateful for that. I listened to a poem of Frank O’Hara’s, O’Hara’s reading, one I’d not heard before but just presenting itself. Having a Coke With You. I suppose it might well have been the last line that had me replay it. Tonight, rather than write sonnets I am trying instead for a little continuity. What will that do to the salt on my cheeks. It sounds the same outside, perhaps a little louder, but not really. Only that everyone else has gone away. And it only makes sense to be here and with these people and doing this and, why would I ever have really thought otherwise. Did I? Anyway it is lovely this afternoon, and the poetry, Darwish, water, and you are kind. Not to send the small disembodied faces over the messaging service is too sombre, and we are sober, so the faces as we send them smile, and I too.
January 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
train home, back
We may be in a tunnel, I don’t know, it’s night out
Just an occasional flash distracts the eyes
Anxiety hit this afternoon, this new evening
2 weeks cold and then smack
My chest is filling up, breath evading
Suck it in, they’re watching and talking it would seem, even faster across one another
is hot footing it
I want to get a starred first on this next essay,
Same impetus, I guess, as that which makes you time your early runs,
each one to be faster than the last, /longer.
This would be OK if I were training hard and steady, dedicated , but
Teenage terms, these last.
I’ve spent the weekend at home picking out books, notebooks, clothes, all my gear
all spanning back over the years, my different places,
Maybe my stomach hurts with the fear of me at 19.
I pack, in the end, as I always do,
this year’s clothes.
All other paraphernalia scattered about the house in the rooms I alit in.
parents no longer protest. And they’re so happy to see me, undeservéd.
I went for an unholy mass this morning alone.
Laughed a little, smiled,
my favourite part the stream of seven altar girls,
after the one tall altar man. Gotta be a fad.
Also the music group were arguing, one marked out clearly boss of herself,
and changing the hymns as they went. Abomination.
I stare at the kid in front, misbehaving, his brother’s good but he, the squirmer, is readying for First Holy Communion. Flashes me looks.
They’ve changed the hymns. The red ones are new, and atrocious. More atrocious maybe than the old monochrome.
It’s a jolly thing,
The priest gives out orders
BOW TO THE ALTAR
and the other, deacon, has a voice makes me wonder if he has been docked.
I leave gratefully, cleaner outside, noting again that I now go, like my parents, like clockwork, even if I won’t be confirmed.
January 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
Dialogue begins. after dark
-I think you are back to showing what you are really made of.
Mother, what does that mean?
I call you up and tell you not to be proud, I hadn’t earned it.
Mother what does that mean.
force my gaze out of the window in order to see this is a train
high sky already, but low sun,
can it be low?
trees beginning to stand taller.
I wish someone would agree to a conversation about good and evil.
If we are, some of us, born less good and must become good.
if we differ originally upon the scale.
Yes, the sun has just come up, you are going for your run, it may be low.
I want to quit forcing my personality down your throat.
six a.m. and I wake four ways barred by wet,
a sweat I do not understand.
My ribs wet through my skin.
Last night there was a man who used to be a bookseller, but in a shop that was here before this, quite different. The counter stretched up on the opposite wall and he had once, he said, punched a fellow who leapt up on the books, trampling the paperbacks… He was so thin, and I put it by for age but, so thin. Couldn’t find his wallet, new coat, and I watched frozen as he patted legs that disappeared as he searched them and a torso that flattened too.
in spite of poetry
I’m throwing names out now and I know it,
the old man, Ben Lerner, John Steinbeck
John? I don’t tend to think of him with the first name attached.
I’m reading your East of Eden, and I think I understand it too well. No doubt I miss a great deal, I hope so.
Christmas is one month old and my sensibility reeling.
Why do you tolerate me, my teacher?
Pity, amusement, incomprehension?
January 23, 2015 § Leave a comment
You said something lovely about the inglorious human aspects, the physical&mental, to which we are subject. I wish that I could recall it verbatim, what you said, because I thought then that the words you had chosen were particularly good. remember inglorious.
I am wind up toy two plastic legs,
tip one side other side forward
zig-zag an equilibrium, tick.
One foot is food and the other foot is sleep.
It is annoying that instead of growling, my stomach,
I just tip far, off balance or actually, tip too near & too fast.
Annoying that instead of meeting sleep with heavy heart,
I wire out.
It dulls me a little, buzzing eyes, when someone occasionally talks too long on a subject that doesn’t serve being turned over. how your boyfriend is jealous of your friends.
Also, I do not want to be involved in your project.
How sticky blood is.
In my pocket my fingers are dripping.
Jacob said he is pleasantly surprised at what he finds.
Still space though, for the graceful performance
a small fix.
Asks the guy inside the plastic box the metro station for a bandaid, and the kind man calls upstairs and goes, and brings me back 2, with an antibacterial wipe.
put one in my pocket and the other cub applies in the lift.