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

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

In a slight disagreeable mood—

In a slight disagreeable mood— puzzling really. Have no real basis for this irritation. Perhaps the sensation falls on the flu shot I received earlier in the morning, before I began the usual chores of the day— my arm does not feel sore. No blistering wound. No drama. Almost feel cheated. And cranky. My sinuses cloud over as after a heavy sobbing. Or after biting a fresh jalapeño without warning, the heat rising up and over the tongue.
This afternoon I went for a long walk, the first time I’ve managed to have an hour for exercise, for meditation, since Brendan was born. Crossing from the subdivision into grass fields I startled a small flock of birds. At one time I would have labeled them chimney swifts or barn swallows, but I am not sure now— they scattered out of the dried winter knots of wild weeds, flying over my head with panicked wings, pulsing small voices, their chests caramel colored. Burnt orange gold.
Honestly this event could be the source of my frustration. I expected Nature to provide a poem, but the mind is unwilling to follow with the plot. So I grumble and cuss. Fumble with words. Maybe later.

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