the light, the light and the cold (what a tease), the birds puffed up, watching the throat of the blackbird shining white in the light, through the leaves, rippling with its warning song...
i can't grasp time, i can't rein it in. the days are meagre, a few poems, a few roots, a few chapters, a few escapes. not even memory will back me up here, is it alright just to float in the present? i need some return, some physical thing to hold in my hands and say that is what i have achieved. the thing is i don't think i would worry if it weren't for other people, strange how they impinge on you without even speaking or doing. i wish my life were my own...
taking advantage of the empty house, i should be downstairs, lying cat like in the sunshine doing something impressive, now where exactly is that novel hmm? that poetry collection? where are those paintings and drawings? where is the money? where is the intelligence? where are the stunning thoughts, the radical ideas, the insights, the discoveries? where is the talent, where is the speciality? the burden is too much to bear, the internet yeilds pitifully little.
instead i am singing out of tune to the charmless man and regretting leaving my jumper downstairs...
ah... life... what a joy it all is...
(sarcasm? i can't tell.)
