Wandering back over writings from the past year that I have yet to “organize”…I’m running across portions of interest (that I can’t even access to fix typos in now!? having been done on a former computer and transferred/transmuted with missing marks / disintentions, alas) – but something I can do when I’m sick… so I’ll post a few of these and you can weigh in (if you will) with what you think – whether interesting, worth filing away, saving forward and what-not. Thank you!
I lived for awhile in Grand Rapids, Michigan, attending graduate school and being regenerated and grown in-vitro like a culture into the family, religion and industry of literature. I’ve recently stumbled across a photographer’s blog who shoots many subjects in and around that West Michigan area. If you browse her photos over the past week or two it will provide you a feel for snapshotting summer…and here are some verbal renditions…
Ever the distortion of mind. With emotion, contortion.
At times, a necessary snap.
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A young woman peddling her bicycle, unclothed for summer. Body moving like taffy on its paddles. Just as pliant, just as tight, and just as supple. As salty, as mouth-watering, as sweet.
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Tumbles in the machinery like loose screws, clanking and rattling around.
A clicker, a habit, desire.
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Sun sears glares upon moments, lasering trains of thought. Dis integration. You stumble, you wobble, you very nearly fall. Erasing inspiration with foul mood. You adjust.
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Scars like the outside, on the surface of the brain.
Called memory, called dreaming, called thought.
Or so you imagine.
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Pool or sprinkler, sweat and breeze, you forgot. Moment’s season’s change, and you were happy. Somewhere in mountains, or North by the sea. Without belongings.
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It emerges like a wire, a monster’s bite.
You’ll call it “me” or “I” and it’ll stand for something. Continuity.
An inventor’s dream.
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Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
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“I” continues to sit and walk, lie and stand. To eat. To breathe.
Another failure…I nearly doubled the word count ’cause he wouldn’t shut up. Probably shoulda aborted it, but here it is:
The Brambles
He was painting a picture for us. “Now this takes significant time to develop,” he said, “but I promise it’ll be worth the wait.” “The fruits, they aren’t easy pickings, but if you’re willing to work it, I mean really get in there and give it a go – you’ll find ‘em, and they,” he assured us, “even these beautiful berries, nuggets, sweet bloody fleshes can seem prickly and tart at the first – it’s kind of an ‘acquired taste’ as they say – from years and years of this trying/acquiring and trying/acquiring – but those tiny pert jewels, held deep ‘round the heart of its center, those phenomenal pearls of good juice, as they finally give way and pop open,” he said, “that rush! That momentary flood of powerful delight, that untangleable blend of most delicate morsel and sun-bittered time, that salting of aging and ripeness – it’s a wonder!” “You’ve just got to get to them and find them, one after one and by one, have persistence!” he admonished, “far along, deep within, there’s always this unbelievable cluster of most amazing, unique and mouthwatering reward – yes, it seems tiny and ephemeral and difficult to grow or achieve, but it’s worth it!” he encouraged us, “the dedication of labor and time, constant tending and pruning pursuit; the right balance of trimming and rest, nourishment and fallow…”
Why he’d referred to our marriage as “the Brambles.”
Polysemic Stupor 