Sunday, May 3, 2009

Last night--

Dreamed I was a yellow transparent stone on a beach but also a French peasant in period costume.

Listened to the Rays pitch around Dustin Pedroia to get to Papi, which was a dreadful turn of events, and I hate to think of Papi tossing and turning in his bed, asking himself, "Am I washed up?"

Also dreamed of playing the violin, but that kind of dream is more akin to muscle-memory than imagination. I guess maybe I should get the instrument out of its case and do what my fingers are nagging me to do.


Another poetry round for Beloit. Listening so hard to poems is very, very tiring. And yet, the more we listen, the more we stay the the same, n'est-ce pas?

by Christine de Pisan, 14th century

[I don't know the translator, and I don't remember where I found this]

It is a month today

Since my lover went away.

My heart remains gloomy and silent;

It is a month today.

"Farewell," he said, "I am leaving."

Since then he speaks to me no more.

It is a month today.

No comments: