Writing

Woke up early this morning (damn the world cup, I knew this would happen), and it was already hot.  Am currently sitting on the floor in the front room with the fan on full and very little on.  If my house were cleaner it would be nothing, but given its current state that would not be wise…I keep meaning to clean but it is far too hot!  Might attempt it at midnight.

A glorious Monday and no work!  Independance days off today and tomorrow, though i don’t think we’re quite free yet.  Am reading Louis MacNeice, and it’s sent me all lyrical.  I buy old volumes of collected works from used bookstores, but I think I must stop because it fills me with immeasurable sadness to live and breathe and grow old with someone, to dream, fall in love, question, lose faith, grow tired, and then when the poems stop you have lost a friend to the silence…much better to dive in at certain points happy in the boundless possibilities of what they could have once been or what they later became.  Everyone seems to lose faith, it makes me sad because I still hope to find something…Yeats: “and I shall find some peace there for peace comes dropping slow” crumbling to “things fall apart, the center cannot hold.”  ee cummings from

the moon is hiding in
her hair
The
lilly
of heaven
full of all dreams
draws down.

cover her briefness in singing
close her with intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilights
Deepen her.

Recite
upon her
flesh
the rain’s

pearls singly-whispering

to a maze of letters and lost punctuation and black designs upon white paper and

(life imitate gossip fear unlife
mean
-ness,and
to succeed in not
dying)

Neruda, now, I do not know never having read the collected works I am free to believe he kept love and faith til the end.  TS Eliot I am equally free to believe found faith somehow after passing through the wasteland.  MacNeice had only hope and sadness

Forgive what I give you.  Though nightmare and cinders,
The one can be trodden, the other ridden,
We must use what transport we can.  Both crunching
Path and bucking dream can take me
Where I shall leave the path and dismount
From the mad-eyed beast and keep my appointment
In green improbable fields with you.

Still, it inspires me to write, can’t you tell?  Though I am no poet.  I wish my great novel, my Catcher in the Rye would take form, it would be often funny and sometimes sad and sometimes profound and find great comfort in things like a little sister riding the merry-go-round in a blue dress and if I could find it anywhere in myself it would call forth hope like a trumpet because that is chiefly what is missed.  Should I go to the beach?  Or sit here before my computer and allow it to mock my formless thoughts?

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