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

Thursday, March 6, 2014

As Bland Over-Watered Coffee

At first I decided not to write anything today— the full burden of work-projects weakened any other forms of expression— as bland, over-watered coffee, pale tea.

We bought pillows last Sunday—their fluff rises high around the ears, shifting my neck in God-awful positions. When did I develop such a cranky, old man’s body? Sometimes at night I feel my right leg lifting off the mattress, curling up and back as if it willing itself to become inhuman, reshape itself through an arthritic impulse.
56/ inside piles of debris, leaves ready for burning, pyres of cast-off lives, forgotten words discarded in casual conversations
among soiled bed sheets, piled for washing: protein stains or urine mishaps, in the fashion of a body forgetting its own rules, the restrictions society places on control or release— when two bodies merge, blur territories, build points of friction—

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