Continuous Voice

{07162020}               

This afternoon a fine, dense rain. Unexpected drenching. Mist rose slightly, sparking moods. Letting me drowse on the couch for uncalculated moments. I have no new excuses for not writing today: no new epiphanies to record. One cup of coffee in the morning does not provide the drive for a full day. And organizing files only keeps items in neat, little boxes. Firm categories.

               Brendan currently lies next to me watching videos on his phone: fingerboards, motorbikes, scooters. He translates his life to mechanics, gears, engineering concepts, dangling electrical wires. A practical man.

               So. No new haikusentences. No new phrasing. My long poem as well sits ignored. For almost four years it developed and transformed, splintered off into two projects. But never will it finish. A continuous voice.

              Gathering notes on Ulysses makes me impatient. Every sentence from Joyce shifts into a higher literary analysis. The protagonist so lost in his early twentieth century dark academia. Bitter pariah. Outcast monk. I want to understand every word, every Latin phrase. Every nuance placed on a simple image of an apple on a polishedwood table. Understand it all. Yes. All.

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“Rivers are the old roads, as are songs, to traverse memory.” 
Joy Harjo, An American Sunrise 

“rain all day/I carve the darkness/from a peach” 
                Marilyn Appl Walker

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following close, the river, fractured— https://fragmentedportrait.blogspot.com/