. belong[♥][→] a loyalty of cranes II III

[13 Feb 2712:53pm] "though I am lonelier for loving the moving light in streams." -Mark Fry [mostly ; ask to be added. i like new friends, but please don't steal.] 00197 &sed non satiata

[21 Nov 081:38pm] my computer has crashed, completely. it's totally dead. i thought i'd be devastated: i'm relieved. i think i'm going to leave it dead and untouched and try to live a computer-free life for a while. we'll see how it goes. i lost a few poems i was working and on, and lots of word files where i had poems and quotations saved. im sad to lose those, but i backed up most everything else, and this feels like a new beginning! i've been aching for change, and the universe gave it to me :) i'd love to write through post, or talk on the phone, or meet in person for coffee :) sed non satiata

[_+'this means it's noon & we're inconsolable'_] [7 Nov 088:22am] The problem (if there was one) was not a problem of quantity, or structure, or change, or space. It was not a problem of figures, or of numbers, or even a problem of scale. It did not concern computation, denotation, figuration, lineation, divination, compression, ethics, poetics, devotion, luck, skill, intent, diligence, morality, philosophy, cartography, or even axiomatically defined abstract systems. Certainly it would come to that, eventually, but the problem, for now, here, at the beginning, the problem (if there was one, if there even was a problem) was quite simply a problem with the question. He wants to paint a bird, needs to, and the problem is why. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how because hows are easy, series or sequence, one foot after the other, but existentially why bother, what does it solve? Be the tree. Solve for bird. What does this mean, could it possibly mean? It's a problem of clarity. It's a problem of precision. It's a problem of faith and doubt and just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn't mean you've accomplished anything. Maybe if it was pretty it would be something. Maybe if it was beautiful it would be true. But it's not; not beautiful, not even realistic, it's sorta cartoonish: more like a man in a birdsuit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, another lie against an unreal sky of Cadmium, because he isn't looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible, unless his heart is a metaphor, unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the page is like looking out the window at a bird in your chest with a song in its throat that you don't want to hear but you paint anyway because the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not and the hand wants to do something useful. Answer: be the tree. Answer: solve for bird. Render, render. Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart says the heart. Answer: be the heart. Answer: be the hand. Answer: be the bird. Answer: be the sky.- Richard Siken 006 &sed non satiata

[_+Letter Sent in a Fish: Andrew Grace_] [5 Nov 081:30pm] How sweet it will be to hand this all back: bent axe, cinnabarine fire, these hands. Soot fallen by the east gate, brief path for pheasant & rat: let me become this chopped and burning pine, to ascend leadless orchards, each wracked singularity its own sign of failure if we come back to life, which I believe in. Do you imagine such things? Our prelude over? Hand it back. And where does it go then? Some uncarved life, a jade badge- to have it swell in front of me before I must remember this morning, lice ecstatic in winter sun, far from now, hair dragged through bloodgrass... The rest is easy as a blind slide and a once round the column: slipstream, aphid, tiara of moss, buck, mountain that has yet to find the fault to starts its journey; we could come back as any of these. Forget the pine, let me become a traveler of the river's nadir, bottom-feeder, fugitive, to know only scum yet be unable not to take it in like sky takes prayer. 005 &sed non satiata

[1 Nov 0810:35am] My first poem was accepted for publication! It's a prose poem that's forthcoming in the journal Open Face Sandwich. Aaaaahhh!! I can't believe it! I'm so excited. They chose one of my least favorite poems, which is both confusing and reassuring. If you have my book, it's near the back; it's called Sotto Voce. It's kind of a dramatic, train-of-consciousness poem that I probably wrote when I was reading a lot of Virginia Wolfe... but hey! This is huge! 0011 &sed non satiata

[27 Oct 089:05pm] yellow.   005 &sed non satiata

get the led out. ♥ stairway to heaven. ←