Thursday, October 2, 2008

And a Good Day To You!

(Note: I am listening to Neverwhere and the Thirteenth Tale and watching The Grave of the Fireflies. The rest I am actually reading.)

It is fun to make networks--so much fun. You should try it in a bus, you should try it in a rush, you should try it here and there…

Anyone else feeling bereft?

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer...
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life...

I am trying to trap cats hither and yon. Cats make me think of language a lot—the language of research where some organisms are called invasive species. When you use this language you turn the individual member of the species into a vermin (for isn’t invasive species really the same as saying vermin?) This is how you make it less of your issue. This is how you make it ok to poison, infect, trap, and shoot these vermin. Oh it annoys me. The moral onus moves from the people who caused the problem to the creature that was dragged along on ships, dumped and left, managed to survive.

Would you rent a house that disturbed you? I can still smell fear—it is urinous.

I finished Kiss of the Yogini. It is quite interesting. Everywhere is the yogini—but she is sublimated as things become more orthodox. It is written from a male point of view. So although Smith claims that the sublimation and erasure of the Yogini (mother, seizer, sakti) is problematic, I never sense what it is to be the woman who is the stand in for the supernatural dakinis, and seizers and goddesses. She is always the agent of fear or desire, of power, but never a yogini—the human females used in lieu of them inside her own skin. Or at least not until the final chapter, when he mentions that yoginis are often treated in the way witches are in the west. Hmmm.

Taken by a seizer, it can be a small child, it can cause a disease, she is a seizer and a bird as well. Can that be?


Each phase of a child dies, and the child that was that phase dies to some extent—as all of the particles that make up our cells are replaced in regular sequence as we age so the child that was is replaced by the child that is, and that child replaced by the child that will be.

the forms.

It is perhaps not a particular sad thing, I suppose, a healthy child that develops normally, but it is what time is and I get very sad sometimes. When my first was a day old I knew his perfection would not last through the basic brutalization that is life. Or at least this is how I felt then. Everything is so messy. I cannot keep things orderly and neat.

a door opens

We have photos and films of our little babies, then older and older. There is an imprint.

into the yard

The photos for sale in antique shops: imprints of the dead imprints. I know an artist who paints these people with flowers for hats and.

wooden cherry scent

Should I be with my children at every moment, soaking up their being before it disappears and becomes a new being?

I watched you as you disappeared

What do I lose by doing this by myself? And what I have I become in each moment?

She is a seizer and a bird, she is the yogini, she is to whom I offer myself, she is Kali, goddess of time. I understand her detached violence, her brutal churning of the world’s blood, her dance on the dead, or perhaps not dead, Siva. And her tenderness.

oh shit. fuckit. I’m done.

On the road, scrabblemouth. I save my emblems for the end. Little babies hold my hand, when it is time, when the apocalypse is here, I’ll shoot you.

(Quotes by Christopher Smart, Cormac McCarthy, Tom Waits)

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