Cold
Cold Cold
It is, and I have one . Both contribute to my nasal burbling. This is the third day of that. But compare, this is the third or fourth month of shoulder-ache, and the 2nd year of throat pressure.
Nice to double words for titles. I mean, it's easy, it seems, oh I don't know, organic, or maybe I mean natural, and you never know what you might get. Perhaps an incantation.
Then come in two men wearing dresses. They cross themselves before they drink their lattes (are they lattes?) & speak Roooshian, but when they say Engelsk words—"upright" "Kendall"—they do not have accents. Now I know we have monks on the hill...("Shakespeare") but what would send American boys into the arms of Mother Russia's church? The desire to wear dresses?
I might wish for so singular a fate--like Lady Hester Stanhope in her billowy trousers (and, oh I hope, curly-toed slippers).
This is almost as good as the day the Hasid showed up all alone in La Boheme. That was better because it was the first time & I was so much younger. When was that? 1979, 1983? Of course, he seemed lost & maybe crazy.
Whatever else I was going to say...
I went for two walks & the cold air hurt my sinuses. No cats. Okay, one cat all day. And good ideas high-stepping through my mind like a homecoming parade. No. St. Pat's. Ideas like teen-age girls with fat thighs, satin dresses & tassels on their white boots. That could be. And high school kids marching in dorky hats, making a happy clamor. Fat sheriff posses riding big-haunched horses & clowns with shovels & brooms.
And gone again.
I spoke to a woman who was going to hear Tibetan drums. I wanted to go but with my diseased head, I felt unworthy.
Strange, those bearded monkish guys. I like them. Better than the jittery emaciated guy with the helmet hair. Ordinary madness vs. baroque aspiration. I know which one I'd choose.
15th Starbucks 1/14/01
Something & Misery
Pain? Sin? What else goes? Not mirth or birth or even dearth and certainly no multisyllabics. Even "something" pleases not.
Cold inside & outside my head. And my nose is running for the 4th or 5th night in a row & I don't want to take another antihistamine. I think they make my shoulder worse. But to lie in bed listening to the burbling in my nostrils. Listening to the burble of my breath.
Can you tell I've been rewriting, which makes me sensitive to syllables (I use too many) & gerundives (past continuous?) also too many—those -ing words.
Oh, I started so late, & I started from so low & I am such a slow learner. (Back of hand to forehead: Ahhhh.)
I'm way tired of Connections, and only 1/4 of the way through. I think it could be cut. But I'd like to be writing something brand new. Something I have no inkling of. Inkling. Now that's a wonderful word. That's what I'm up to: inkling.
15th Starbucks 1/15/01
Hubble-Bubble
My nose sounds like a hookah & it has been sounding like one for 6 days. I gave up & bought Nyquil even though last time I took it I had some bad chest pain. My shoulder hurts anyway, and I want to sleep. (I had bad dreams last night, and bad reality when I woke this morning.) But it warmed up 10 or 15 degrees & started to rain.
I did my usual thing, like I always do, and didn't get very far, like I always don't. And then the only mail I got was the light bill. The police came but I didn't talk to them. (I wonder what the guy in #9 is up to.) A woman goes by in a muscle shirt, elbowing into a windbreak, um a fine specimen. I wonder where she's from—the dance studio? I wish my shoulder would clear up, I'm tired of feeling like a cripple. I want to be a fine specimen too.
15th Starbs 1/1/7/01
The Point of What?
Quietly reading. Quietly writing. Dark & cold out—if there is progress (along the orbit), I can't see it. Our progress around the orbit mimics the sun's progress around the ecliptic, isn't that nice?
I see brighter haloes than ever before. Not on saints, either. What, I ask you, what am I to do? Other people survive, even thrive, why not me?
Because I'm writing tripe, that's why. My one & only life & I'm wasting it writing tripe. And I do sort of believe that if your art isn't going to give people shivers 10,000 years from now, then you might as well give yourself over to
over to...over to
But there you have it. I don't have an idea of what I'd give myself over to other than what I do:
feasting? drunkenness? love
· service? Am I forgetting something?
· Duty or gratification.
· Craft.
· A bottle of juice. A flight to the sun.
Those boys.
BM Starbucks 1/18/01
It is, and I have one . Both contribute to my nasal burbling. This is the third day of that. But compare, this is the third or fourth month of shoulder-ache, and the 2nd year of throat pressure.
Nice to double words for titles. I mean, it's easy, it seems, oh I don't know, organic, or maybe I mean natural, and you never know what you might get. Perhaps an incantation.
Then come in two men wearing dresses. They cross themselves before they drink their lattes (are they lattes?) & speak Roooshian, but when they say Engelsk words—"upright" "Kendall"—they do not have accents. Now I know we have monks on the hill...("Shakespeare") but what would send American boys into the arms of Mother Russia's church? The desire to wear dresses?
I might wish for so singular a fate--like Lady Hester Stanhope in her billowy trousers (and, oh I hope, curly-toed slippers).
This is almost as good as the day the Hasid showed up all alone in La Boheme. That was better because it was the first time & I was so much younger. When was that? 1979, 1983? Of course, he seemed lost & maybe crazy.
Whatever else I was going to say...
I went for two walks & the cold air hurt my sinuses. No cats. Okay, one cat all day. And good ideas high-stepping through my mind like a homecoming parade. No. St. Pat's. Ideas like teen-age girls with fat thighs, satin dresses & tassels on their white boots. That could be. And high school kids marching in dorky hats, making a happy clamor. Fat sheriff posses riding big-haunched horses & clowns with shovels & brooms.
And gone again.
I spoke to a woman who was going to hear Tibetan drums. I wanted to go but with my diseased head, I felt unworthy.
Strange, those bearded monkish guys. I like them. Better than the jittery emaciated guy with the helmet hair. Ordinary madness vs. baroque aspiration. I know which one I'd choose.
15th Starbucks 1/14/01
Something & Misery
Pain? Sin? What else goes? Not mirth or birth or even dearth and certainly no multisyllabics. Even "something" pleases not.
Cold inside & outside my head. And my nose is running for the 4th or 5th night in a row & I don't want to take another antihistamine. I think they make my shoulder worse. But to lie in bed listening to the burbling in my nostrils. Listening to the burble of my breath.
Can you tell I've been rewriting, which makes me sensitive to syllables (I use too many) & gerundives (past continuous?) also too many—those -ing words.
Oh, I started so late, & I started from so low & I am such a slow learner. (Back of hand to forehead: Ahhhh.)
I'm way tired of Connections, and only 1/4 of the way through. I think it could be cut. But I'd like to be writing something brand new. Something I have no inkling of. Inkling. Now that's a wonderful word. That's what I'm up to: inkling.
15th Starbucks 1/15/01
Hubble-Bubble
My nose sounds like a hookah & it has been sounding like one for 6 days. I gave up & bought Nyquil even though last time I took it I had some bad chest pain. My shoulder hurts anyway, and I want to sleep. (I had bad dreams last night, and bad reality when I woke this morning.) But it warmed up 10 or 15 degrees & started to rain.
I did my usual thing, like I always do, and didn't get very far, like I always don't. And then the only mail I got was the light bill. The police came but I didn't talk to them. (I wonder what the guy in #9 is up to.) A woman goes by in a muscle shirt, elbowing into a windbreak, um a fine specimen. I wonder where she's from—the dance studio? I wish my shoulder would clear up, I'm tired of feeling like a cripple. I want to be a fine specimen too.
15th Starbs 1/1/7/01
The Point of What?
Quietly reading. Quietly writing. Dark & cold out—if there is progress (along the orbit), I can't see it. Our progress around the orbit mimics the sun's progress around the ecliptic, isn't that nice?
I see brighter haloes than ever before. Not on saints, either. What, I ask you, what am I to do? Other people survive, even thrive, why not me?
Because I'm writing tripe, that's why. My one & only life & I'm wasting it writing tripe. And I do sort of believe that if your art isn't going to give people shivers 10,000 years from now, then you might as well give yourself over to
over to...over to
But there you have it. I don't have an idea of what I'd give myself over to other than what I do:
feasting? drunkenness? love
· service? Am I forgetting something?
· Duty or gratification.
· Craft.
· A bottle of juice. A flight to the sun.
Those boys.
BM Starbucks 1/18/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:04 PM
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