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

Saturday, February 3, 2018

In the middle of our early morning rituals


In the middle of our early morning rituals, the moon fell into eclipse. Blood red shades. From the front door we watched the process— the unfolding dark: my son, my father, and I.


Even though he is seven, my son’s weight remains manageable, a light burden to carry downstairs and across the house, so I held him close to watch the disappearing moon. He wrapped his arms around me tight, still half asleep, whispering I love you into my ear. Watching me watch the moon.


Trying to catch up with flow of the past expectations. In a bluntly honest fashion. Staring at a blank page until a sense of snow blindness tricks the pupil, constricting the lens.

Looking for solace in Sylvia Plath's journals—that scratchy rhythm, obsessive and demanding want for writing. Parallel that intensity towards A.'s insistence towards M.

As the intoxication of hunters, sleeping fireside after the afterwards, beyond the rifle shot. Collapse of prey.
                                                  Wounded bear. Fallen deer.


•••••
Final Observations for January

1. curve of his neck in winter, calculating arithmetic

2. an unopened invitation left on the bureau mirror

3. bar of apricot soap still half wrapped in tissue

4. after midnight, his drawn out sigh slowly released into my hands,

5. that sudden epiphany exposed

6. with all the bedroom windows opened

7. she circles her rug-bed three times, then settles down, tail curled underneath

8. unwashed plates cluttering the kitchen sink

9. our neighbor's house across the street—his bedroom light switches on

10. bleached sheets hung out to dry in my grandmother's backyard

11. bowl of uncooked rice

12. screendoor springing back against the house without a warning

13. a tarnished coin in my back pocket

14. —pull of slow moving train across the roadway, heading toward a Blood moon
•••••

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