Still Cool. Cool as a Corpse
Still Cool. Cool as a Corpse
I can't see further than Friday or Saturday, though none of my likely alternatives appeals.
It's tiresome—let's talk about something else.
There is nothing else—a biography of Bruce Chatwin or Elizabeth Bishop. Cool weather. No mail.
I'm putting Meta on disk. "Field Notes"/Julia is stalled...
I told all my ancestors to go sit on a tack, and felt much better. A little better. Less like a child. I'd rather be the captain of my fate, even if it's a lousy fate. I don't recall ever being/feeling protected as a child. Only constrained. Hemmed in.
So, off into the blaze of noon for $15? Miserable day.
BM *bucks 7/17/01
Believing
In God. In good. In goldfish.
In fate. In fat.
In luck or lack or lock.
In justice. In just ice.
In time. Just in time.
In death or dearth.
In love. In liver. In a levé.
In cats. Cuts. Acute. Eyes & absence.
I don't know, on the whole I'd say every thing I have ever believed turned out to be a crock.
Except decay. And maybe reconstitution.
None of it personal. We are personal. Heaven is, I suppose, impersonal.
In doom. In dim, on a dim. Damn dumb.
I reeled in my suspension (of disbelief) cord. It was a sort of trapeze or swing. Which carries (or leads) us toward the apple tree. Oh, don't go there....
BM *Bucks 7/18/01
Humorous or Comical
I'm trying to see the humorous side of my plight. Broke & bored & too chicken to fix it. ha ha ha, what a riot.
Well, that's life.
I'd settle for having some perspective, but when I think of that, I think of what may be a missing line for "Simplicity" (poor Virginia) (poor Kathy). Unfortunately, when I get perspective, it involves seeing myself from a long way off. Very small. Not important. Wishes—not important. Emotions—ditto. All always changing into something else. And when you're dead, you don't have any emotions at all.
That must be restful.
On the utter ham, all my memories remain somehow—valuable. Even the trivial ones. Silly little things involving songs? 1975-6 when I lived w/ Jimmy L. & Jean Op. (and Tomas!) The Brandenburgs, Bonnie Raitt. And the sun-whipped wind, the wind whipped fog tossing the heads of the palm trees growing in the middle of Dolores.
I don't think I ever "remembered" Jimmy L. (& Regina) properly. Ty would be, what, 18 by now—I wonder if they have more kids & live in suburbia. Maybe the kids but not in suburbia, not them. I bet Jimmy's bald & Reg looks just the same.
BM *Bucks 7/19/01
I can't see further than Friday or Saturday, though none of my likely alternatives appeals.
It's tiresome—let's talk about something else.
There is nothing else—a biography of Bruce Chatwin or Elizabeth Bishop. Cool weather. No mail.
I'm putting Meta on disk. "Field Notes"/Julia is stalled...
I told all my ancestors to go sit on a tack, and felt much better. A little better. Less like a child. I'd rather be the captain of my fate, even if it's a lousy fate. I don't recall ever being/feeling protected as a child. Only constrained. Hemmed in.
So, off into the blaze of noon for $15? Miserable day.
BM *bucks 7/17/01
Believing
In God. In good. In goldfish.
In fate. In fat.
In luck or lack or lock.
In justice. In just ice.
In time. Just in time.
In death or dearth.
In love. In liver. In a levé.
In cats. Cuts. Acute. Eyes & absence.
I don't know, on the whole I'd say every thing I have ever believed turned out to be a crock.
Except decay. And maybe reconstitution.
None of it personal. We are personal. Heaven is, I suppose, impersonal.
In doom. In dim, on a dim. Damn dumb.
I reeled in my suspension (of disbelief) cord. It was a sort of trapeze or swing. Which carries (or leads) us toward the apple tree. Oh, don't go there....
BM *Bucks 7/18/01
Humorous or Comical
I'm trying to see the humorous side of my plight. Broke & bored & too chicken to fix it. ha ha ha, what a riot.
Well, that's life.
I'd settle for having some perspective, but when I think of that, I think of what may be a missing line for "Simplicity" (poor Virginia) (poor Kathy). Unfortunately, when I get perspective, it involves seeing myself from a long way off. Very small. Not important. Wishes—not important. Emotions—ditto. All always changing into something else. And when you're dead, you don't have any emotions at all.
That must be restful.
On the utter ham, all my memories remain somehow—valuable. Even the trivial ones. Silly little things involving songs? 1975-6 when I lived w/ Jimmy L. & Jean Op. (and Tomas!) The Brandenburgs, Bonnie Raitt. And the sun-whipped wind, the wind whipped fog tossing the heads of the palm trees growing in the middle of Dolores.
I don't think I ever "remembered" Jimmy L. (& Regina) properly. Ty would be, what, 18 by now—I wonder if they have more kids & live in suburbia. Maybe the kids but not in suburbia, not them. I bet Jimmy's bald & Reg looks just the same.
BM *Bucks 7/19/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:06 PM
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