Your attentions overwhelm--at the risk of embarrassment, we move on.
Sometimes we get bored--or stranded in the library waiting for a ride home. Sometimes each piece of the day seems to lend itself to that moment when you have to put your books aside--shelf Saussure and Lacan, and try the world on in a different size. This week, we tried poetry...
Not Writing: Three Haikus
New facebook alert
distracts eyes eager for being
Sorry, facebook said."
It is loud. Tele
vision off--reconciled
account with roommate.
Easily forgot
are the simple pieces that
teach me contentment.
Let's
let's argue--
let's tease the painful, gasping meaning
from each tortured line.
let's pretend it can go anywhere--
that he stopped in the woods, snowy or otherwise,
for a deep psychoanalysis of his
cold, muffled life. The woods are deep--he
talks to horses there.
bethespoon. Bend each longing sunflower
and poisonous motivation of experience.
Let's rename the world. Suns are years.
roads are choices. flirts are deers with doe brown eyes.
Here we care about undiscovered
rocks at the bottom of a cave
buried under the ocean
because they are
beautiful...
or are
they
?
ask keats...
Wait, don't--we don't care about keats.
keats' fears are realized--he's dead.
along with every other pen wielder
since eden. It's about
you. it's about me. it's about reading.
crazy? confusing?
yes--here
we listen to guys who talk to horses--
alone, in the dark, cold--snowy--
woods. Miles and sleep.
Top Heavy
1 week ago
5 comments:
Oh for the college experience--where everything is questioned, examined, probed and unmasked for essential meaning. Where one ponders for oneself the great ponderances of others, until...
Perhaps the Peter of your former post was simply numb with theory, opinion, analysis and hyperbole and found respite on the bench of his own Singularity--
Poor Peter, what will become of him? Will he endure this maelstrom of information, this Black Hole of knowledge to one day launch his own Big Bang of brilliant creative force? Or will he simply be a forgotten number, a neutered neutron blown with the passing leaves of time, a victim of the "Peter Principle"?
Perhaps the approaching steps signaled the advancing of his meeting with epiphany—where he opens himself to pain, love, failure, long walks, warm drink on cold days—and realizes that great thinkers began simply as bookworms in libraries. It could be…after all, the coolness of round robins is that they really do kill the author—“who is this person pithy? And why do we care about them?” It’s about the reader. Those who step outside the Peter Principle are the ones who change how others see—I like to think that is where Peter is headed.
I'm beginning to think that Cedar has been fully integrated into your lives. I see small, subtle ties to the experience that is Cedar....the coldness....the boredom...the constant questionings of what life has to offer....but it always proves to be entertaining!
Integrated nothing--these lines are our safeties...insuring our identities against the sure ruin of the winter...
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