It's Friday afternoon, and I should by rights have something especially witty to say, now that someone's taken one of my poems and translated it into Italian. I should, but I don't; the whole thing's pleasantly perplexing. Um, I barely remember my work, how can anyone else? Still, it's a fact that some people do, and I feel a certain pressure to try writing again as opposed to typing which I am doing right this very minute.
The world used to seem to me to be a wide-open, never-ending adventure. Now it seems like a reason desire a nap. Fortunately, Larry (the little black cat bent on stealing your soul) agrees and sometimes naps on me. This is important to me and only me, which makes it tremendously important in the estimation of this blog because mine is the imagination at work. Such is the business of being at once a vast human being in word form and utterly insignificant, as all human lives are. The bits and fragments in our lives are gigantic. This morning, as I often do, I sensed the scent of an old flame's skin. It's not as if I could truly smell it. He must be at least half a mile away. The scent was vivid, the shock genuine, the emotions stung anew. And this is for one person as enormous as sky. And what does it matter, really? It doesn't, and it's gone now, and bombs are falling over Fallujah.
In one of my email Inboxes: someone in New Brunswick started a public art website and subscribed me to their list. I almost swallowed my tongue, I was so angry. But then, whatever. I don't want to be Queen of the Scene. And in two hours, I can get that nap.