Like Magic?
Like Magic? Hell, it is Magic
The night air fills with feathers, and you wake to find the world all transformed. For one thing, entirely quiet. No traffic.
I wonder how long it will take the human race to run out of gas. Gas, oil, and coal. The old life that supports the new. There is a worldful. We have been extracting it for, what, 200 years, in quantity anyway. And before that (& some since) we cut down the forests.
But there is still wind, water, sun. And we can still use our legs. Horses, camels. Power.
Well, I can still walk down the hill & back again. I can still push a pen across a page. What for, one might ask. Except we all know you've got to do what you do until you stop. And if I live too much in my head, who could blame me, it's such a capacious & surprising place. Lots of room. Junk galore.
Anyone could blame me. I don't care.
I have a stitch in my bad shoulder. It's almost as if the tendon has gotten caught. But I think it's just my bursitis. The posterior space (?) is full of fluid? I don't let it worry me.
The patter of water as the sun comes out & melts the snow. A very nice sound, the patter of water drops on snow. And sun dazzles on a field of white.
I don't let my shoulder worry me, but it may kill me. When it hurts....I have no immunity to pain like that.
BM Starbucks 2/17/01
The Right Number. The Correct Amount.
Number, if we are collecting symbols like marbles or rocks or shells; amount, if we pour out the bounty of imagination, of likeness: water, cider, wind, gasoline, olive oil. Then Marcus, my Aussie friend from the QFC deli, comes in & we talk shoulders, health & what all. Hot packs, ice bags.
15th Ave Starbs 2/18/01
What is That?
It's a mouse on the sidewalk. Not a darting eek-a-mouse, but a stationary, is-it-dead? mouse. It wasn't dead, it was breathing but it was moving slow & I think only sick mice move that slow. However much I don't want them shitting in my oatmeal, I don't wish them dead. I mean except for their unfortunate rat-like tails, they're cute. I hope it's gone when I get back -- I don't want to take a chance on stepping on it, or seeing it after someone else has.
By the sunny windows, the men are laughing over their books & papers. I won't extend myself (stretch my neck) to see what it’s about. One’s reading the newspaper. The other one has on track shoes & looks like a door, I mean dork. The other other one (reading the mystery book) also looks like a door dork, only he has long stringy hair, an ugly tartan neck scarf & a black leather jacket with fringe. Aging fag? (The snow last Friday certainly brought out the sartorial worst in a lot of people—striped green & yellow mufflers, ill-conceived plaids.) Not my problem. I have enough troubles already with my hair (too long in back), shoulder (inflamed bursa), & income (not enough).
The evening sun slides up the apartment buildings & prepares to leap into nothingness (which it does, unlike us, by leaping vertically). 5:30 p.m. 1 month till equinox.
Holiday crowd. I did almost nothing—3 corrections, 2 sentences, & I rolled the idea of a letter to JHY around between my thumb & index finger. I fear tomorrow Marian will call me up with some awful job.
I'm reading a Byatt novel. Nice to have some brain fodder. And I just realized that my 1972 discovery of sexual passion came 5 or 6 months (less?) after I quit taking birth control pills. B.C. pills are a chemical castrator of a partial sort.
Wish I could see better.
BM Starbucks 2/19/01
That's a Green Eyed Beastie
Cavorting toward me. I'm jealous of people whose stream (of c.) freely flows. I'm jealous of people who get good reviews. I'm jealous of people who are happy. Who have money. Who take trips. Who have friends.
Even with coffee I can't piss it out--or off. This is from reading M. Chabon who is clearly manic; or at least hypomanic. I hate him.
I'm trying to paint word pictures of Cosmic Annie & ChiChi. And imagining some amusing story of what a clever girl I am (with Hopkins' help) (Father Hopkins, not Anthony) at a party (I must be dreaming), & poetry. Yeats of course & after Yeats, more Yeats.
I didn’t get a job. I don't get exciting emails. I got a rejection from Ploughshares with the return address blacked out. Assholes. Oh, I wish so many people ill.
I saw not one but two raggedy one-eyed cats like 'Massers in beggar's coats. Friendly in an impersonal way. Then two little sweeties... I sent them packing. I have no more sentimentality. (That's a lie.) Still, when I wake up with my arm bone throbbing (I know it's cancer), I say, "Enough is enough."
15th Ave Starbucks 2/20/01
The night air fills with feathers, and you wake to find the world all transformed. For one thing, entirely quiet. No traffic.
I wonder how long it will take the human race to run out of gas. Gas, oil, and coal. The old life that supports the new. There is a worldful. We have been extracting it for, what, 200 years, in quantity anyway. And before that (& some since) we cut down the forests.
But there is still wind, water, sun. And we can still use our legs. Horses, camels. Power.
Well, I can still walk down the hill & back again. I can still push a pen across a page. What for, one might ask. Except we all know you've got to do what you do until you stop. And if I live too much in my head, who could blame me, it's such a capacious & surprising place. Lots of room. Junk galore.
Anyone could blame me. I don't care.
I have a stitch in my bad shoulder. It's almost as if the tendon has gotten caught. But I think it's just my bursitis. The posterior space (?) is full of fluid? I don't let it worry me.
The patter of water as the sun comes out & melts the snow. A very nice sound, the patter of water drops on snow. And sun dazzles on a field of white.
I don't let my shoulder worry me, but it may kill me. When it hurts....I have no immunity to pain like that.
BM Starbucks 2/17/01
The Right Number. The Correct Amount.
Number, if we are collecting symbols like marbles or rocks or shells; amount, if we pour out the bounty of imagination, of likeness: water, cider, wind, gasoline, olive oil. Then Marcus, my Aussie friend from the QFC deli, comes in & we talk shoulders, health & what all. Hot packs, ice bags.
15th Ave Starbs 2/18/01
What is That?
It's a mouse on the sidewalk. Not a darting eek-a-mouse, but a stationary, is-it-dead? mouse. It wasn't dead, it was breathing but it was moving slow & I think only sick mice move that slow. However much I don't want them shitting in my oatmeal, I don't wish them dead. I mean except for their unfortunate rat-like tails, they're cute. I hope it's gone when I get back -- I don't want to take a chance on stepping on it, or seeing it after someone else has.
By the sunny windows, the men are laughing over their books & papers. I won't extend myself (stretch my neck) to see what it’s about. One’s reading the newspaper. The other one has on track shoes & looks like a door, I mean dork. The other other one (reading the mystery book) also looks like a door dork, only he has long stringy hair, an ugly tartan neck scarf & a black leather jacket with fringe. Aging fag? (The snow last Friday certainly brought out the sartorial worst in a lot of people—striped green & yellow mufflers, ill-conceived plaids.) Not my problem. I have enough troubles already with my hair (too long in back), shoulder (inflamed bursa), & income (not enough).
The evening sun slides up the apartment buildings & prepares to leap into nothingness (which it does, unlike us, by leaping vertically). 5:30 p.m. 1 month till equinox.
Holiday crowd. I did almost nothing—3 corrections, 2 sentences, & I rolled the idea of a letter to JHY around between my thumb & index finger. I fear tomorrow Marian will call me up with some awful job.
I'm reading a Byatt novel. Nice to have some brain fodder. And I just realized that my 1972 discovery of sexual passion came 5 or 6 months (less?) after I quit taking birth control pills. B.C. pills are a chemical castrator of a partial sort.
Wish I could see better.
BM Starbucks 2/19/01
That's a Green Eyed Beastie
Cavorting toward me. I'm jealous of people whose stream (of c.) freely flows. I'm jealous of people who get good reviews. I'm jealous of people who are happy. Who have money. Who take trips. Who have friends.
Even with coffee I can't piss it out--or off. This is from reading M. Chabon who is clearly manic; or at least hypomanic. I hate him.
I'm trying to paint word pictures of Cosmic Annie & ChiChi. And imagining some amusing story of what a clever girl I am (with Hopkins' help) (Father Hopkins, not Anthony) at a party (I must be dreaming), & poetry. Yeats of course & after Yeats, more Yeats.
I didn’t get a job. I don't get exciting emails. I got a rejection from Ploughshares with the return address blacked out. Assholes. Oh, I wish so many people ill.
I saw not one but two raggedy one-eyed cats like 'Massers in beggar's coats. Friendly in an impersonal way. Then two little sweeties... I sent them packing. I have no more sentimentality. (That's a lie.) Still, when I wake up with my arm bone throbbing (I know it's cancer), I say, "Enough is enough."
15th Ave Starbucks 2/20/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:17 PM
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