Archive for January 11th, 2006



Early this morning there was a ridiculously loud insistent beeping coming from the front street, accompanied by massive metallic clanging and persistent wooden thwacking. The beeps seemed to be set to the exact same metronomic marking as my alarm clock. They were also almost identically pitched to the tone of my alarm clock — perhaps just the merest bit sharp. It’s time to wake up, I remember thinking to myself. You’ve been dreaming for far too long. You have to wake up.

And so I did.


I’m letting old painful things go and I’m coming unraveled — but in a good way (I think) — like kite string coming unbound in a reckless unstoppable unspooling so that I can tumble back and forth with the wind in blueness and light. I don’t really know what to make of myself right now. I like the unknowing.


(It is, I’m well aware, somewhat embarrassingly obvious that sunlight has a deleteriously euphoric effect on my psyche. I refuse to feel chagrin about this, though. Because if one were to do a Schenkerian Analysis of one of my typical Seasonal Affective Disorder poems (usually I end up writing one SAD-trope poem a year at some point during the winter months) — in which the overall harmonic skeleton is boiled down and plucked apart and boiled down and plucked apart until there’s only a large-scale architectural motion from tonic (I) to dominant (V) back to tonic (I) again — my Seasonal Affective Disorder poems would all boil down to Not Enough Sunlight = Bad (tonic/I), It’s Sucking Away My Very Will To Live (dominant/V), Not Enough Sunlight = Bad (tonic/I). (Hmm . . . almost like a blues riff, no?) And you know what? I’m glad that poems, SAD or otherwise, are not subject to Schenkerian Analyses, which I always thought were utterly fucking boring and pointless anyhow. But what was I saying? Yes. A deleteriously euphoric effect.)


Here is where I like to go to be outside by myself and think.

It’s on the other side of the suspension bridge, through a path of moss-covered trees bent into strange shapes, down to the secluded bank where the matted-down yellow grass smells dank and sweet. On calm, overcast days, the water looks like polished jade.

I like to stop at the landing for awhile. I like to look at the odd quirky shapes of old trunks, and the weird lace of branches.

I really couldn’t give a shit if the sky is preoccupied with its own weather, petty quotidian obsessions, and insecurities over global warming, because today I looked up and fell into unrequited love all over again with the frighteningly expansive possibilities of all that blue.

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