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

Monday, June 2, 2014

The River

For a few minutes I worked in the back gardenscape— rearranged border stones one last time, then raised the ground level a few inches to prevent trapped water, breeding pools for mosquitoes. A song in my head repeated over and over.

In bloom

Then the remainder of the day: reworking syllabi for upcoming classes. Adding information to lectures. Channeling a new approach for freshman composition—considering a small additional group project, on the same scheme as the group-poem project last term.

The over-laying theme this time would have to be less decorative and more functional. In other words, it would need to carry a purpose beyond examining experience of a persona— perhaps using a social commentary on technology or progress. Education or future goals.

Even a basic prompt, fill in the blank: No one knows I am: _______. Then juggle the resulting cards around so when read aloud not one person owns the statement. Writing is: _______. Last night I dreamt: _______. But then the experience falls into heavy territory of creativity and less into analytical research. Will need to think more on this.

119/ Nothing less.

A river floods in the blood.

The pulse, the tides of a moment escalating.

Our bed as a river.

The radio shivering across the room with currents of an unseen river.

The doorway fills with the absence of your form; a stone, seconds after it’s dropped into a river from a bridge.

Teaching our three-year-old son to float into the river of his own life.

Brown-green water rising and falling nightly, daily.

Your glance drowning me.

The memory of a river; memory is a river.

You and I are the river of this moment.

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