Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

54/365

.
Without proper backing, nor notes, nor Muse, I wait for an idea to emerge on the page. The very language needed to spark a poem, to kindle out a verse strand, the igniting element is missing. Besides, the hour creeps close to midnight. I have hours of grading still left to complete. A dull ringing in my ears hums indifferently, as if I submerged myself in water—

Could the vocalist (a character from an unfinished work for the Quintet MS) could she feel disconnect from herself or a partner? Her persona is characterized by her Puerto Rican roots. Originally I wanted to show she missed her culture from the island itself. Or from a father figure.

So I lie here instead listening to the occasional pop of fireworks and to the steady drone in my head—maybe Brubeck's rhythms could help generate phrases.



More fireworks explode
overhead. The night trembles
and quakes with the noise.


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