Feb 2, 2006
Tiger in the Sack
At night, I wrestle beasts and monsters. A leviathan in the ocean. A fish. A snake. A fish snake. A recurring fish snake. I battled it with a flute. I lost someone. The fish swallowed the flute. There was a ship. I was in the sea. I was going to die.
There was a great tiger on a road with grass on either side.
The deepening of genius
Perhaps I am too successful
Perhaps I disguise my feelings too well
When they fall in the realm of hatred
The durability of love
It is even able to coexist with revulsion
Some say they are one and the same
If I foresaw my future and it held devastation, I would go forward as planned. I have never been one to spare myself where suffering is concerned. I have also never had much of a knack for telling the future. I wonder how differently I might behave if I knew how it was all going to end.
I had many chances to seize the day. Many chances to take the gift of freedom and do something with it. It could have been a very different life for me.
10:20 a.m. 10:20 a.m. When will I ever see you again?
Spoon songs make me think of long-ago office days. Zoo visits. Hamburger stands.
I remember everything you did
Everything you were
Everything you said
And also of daylight savings time and the discovery of golden hour and photographs of my reflection in the conference room window. Even then, it was never good enough.
The difference between the guy who takes months and months to be comfortable letting people know he's with you and the guy who can't wait to hold your hand. They are the petals of one flower. I don't know what made me think of it.
When love loses its restlessness
No longer scrambling towards an object
No longer fearful of losing it
Doesn't it also lose its flavor altogether
Maybe feeling can only be translated
In the vibrations that radiate from
Nervous tremblings and fear
And in the calm of their absence
With the water smooth and placid
The man loses all thought
Of what was once roiling and churning
For he lacks imagination
I am reluctant to write the word here. Unless it is in glib unmeaning. I am reluctant to draw attention to the fact that I ever feel things or think things or know that attention is being drawn. It is an absurd public illusion, this. And at the same time, it is an impetus and a great mess of gushing, and I am grateful for it and would never curse it away. If nothing else, it keeps me organized.
I fall in love with Ray Bolger when he dances. I am not afraid to say it.
This is what happens when I finish reading a book.
posted by Mary Forrest at 3:57 AM | Back to Monoblog