•145/ a silence slips under the cups and saucers in the pantry •146/ she sought out a word to mend a gap in her thought process— a phrase to prevent the scattering of self through the rooms embedded tightly to her sub-conscious
Sunday, August 24, 2014
In three days the random pile of harvested spearmint reduces to dry twigs, kindling. Brittle branches. Burnings.
• Seeking some aspect of the day— some small moment to record, if even changing batteries in the smoke alarm, forgetting my wallet at home,— not realizing its absence until hours later, while grading random papers at school. • Reread for morning lectures Annie Dillard’s “Heaven and Earth–In Jest”; somehow I forgot her dense similes and numerous allusions hiding within the text. I envy her style, her sense of Self, her ever-present present tense which does not trip the tongue with awkward phrases— • Brendan is desperate to fly a kite, yet the last few days offer no wind. The hours are balmy; even the birds seem to notice the stillness, the thick presence of atmosphere overhead, lingering as if waiting. Always waiting.