A cold, damp morning, with ominous light. I dreamed the solution to my long poem "The White Bear," but now that I have woken up, I can't remember it. Received a single email, from what might be called an old flame, yet nonetheless I am thinking of death and decay because it is autumn, and I am suddenly missing my friend Jilline, who died nearly 5 years ago. Next week I am turning 45 and she'll never know what I've made of myself. As she, the insouciant one, has made nothing of herself.
Ah well. Too much autumn melancholy. I will go back to Blake today, perhaps. Or it's possible that I will go to Bangor instead, and pretend not to know that my family is birthday shopping for me. Yesterday Tom and I took a day to ourselves and hiked a chunk of the Appalachian Trail. Many beautiful and strange mushrooms, a cold cloudy cast of sky, a happy dog, and an abandoned pickup circa 1939.
Why am I writing in sentence fragments? That is a question I can't answer.
5 comments:
Fragments = form following function?
This time of year lends itself to fragmented thoughts, half-begun tasks, and that feeling of Hurry Up, It's Coming.
But, sending some drier weather your way- this morning is clear and blue-skied, and apple-crisp.
Blake or Bangor. That's a tough call.
Blake and Bangor - go hang out at the Borders cafe.
Some days simply are fragments and some, those days that are very thin where one's connection with another world is almost possible, are complete complex thoughts.
I love to read you. Do I say this every time I leave a comment?
Yes, but it cheers me up nonetheless. XX
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