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

Saturday, January 31, 2015

An Echo of Mid-December

The fractured-phrases-project continues to develop nightly— as of this writing, 1,291 lines, the broken expressions loosely grouped by situation or sometimes theme.
I can hear the family in the other room watching television: occasional laughter from a live audience or a chuckle from Ricky. But I am concentrating. Back rigid, hands in continual motion. A quota must be reached—as with many writing exercises. A goal has been laid out. A deadline. I do not want to fall behind.
Commentators, critics, often create elaborate discourses in college textbooks on the craft of writing; they advise beginning blog-writers to map out at least a weekly schedule of well crafted ideas. In other words: set aside a series of hours and days to produce one essay of merit per week to post.

Lately, with this in mind, I have been considering my options, listing tentatively assortments of subjects, a menagerie of ideas for later use. In part, I would like to fall into a stronger habit of scheduling time for writing, leaving a series of observations regarding poetics, rhetorical patterns and techniques, clever commentary on history and the world— if only for Brendan, providing a stronger sense of self for him to consider as he grows older, begins making choices.

—and then, as well, by my formulating a well-structured map out of the labyrinth we call academics might help some students organize their own projects and research papers. Learning through example. Exploration of possibilities.
Random Listing of Phrases
Being invisible.
Owning an invisible presence.
Finding oneself invisible.
Lack of visibility.
Becoming Invisible.
The Invisible Poet.
Lack of acknowledgement.

In the sense of being bluntly honest and less melodramatic.

The older I become, the more often a feeling of being invisible descends over me. My presence fading into the background in an informal existential crisis.


Tonight Brendan took his full bath willingly— no complaints, no whining. He quickly stripped and stepped into the warm water. His bruises from a few days ago have faded finally. Thankfully.

During the soaping process his naked body translated to seal form, to otter— as a small water-based animal, eager to spread out in lower levels of the incoming tide.

Setting up a critical argument remains difficult. I see the ideal arrangement in my head. Getting the full defense however—

It is the same struggle with any creative project. Moving the ideal to a finished product in-hand. Motioning between these stages creates difficulties.

An echo of mid-December. Feeling overwhelmed. And it is late. Trying to find a means of shoving a week’s worth of projects into a few remaining minutes. With a heavy sleep lingers in the head.

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