cool monday. the weekend was beautiful, with glinting light and long periods of soft gray.
some stills: simple dinner in bowls on the couch, a minimal fort built in a dark room, small confessions. fingernails.
D. Walcott’s Omeros: a sunrise and the felling of trees on an island. a wound in a fisherman’s leg, the skin’s refusal. The poem opens in a moment when “the old gods are down at last” in a clearing, an act of clearance, the nakedness of open ground and the budding momentum of technology.
I worry about technology: not that it is, not how fast it moves, but that it is leaving me behind, and that the ways in which I interact with it signal uncritical absorbtion. she does not know how it works or what it is, but she cannot get along without it. she is being carried by it without initiative, without view. she has bound her eyes with it and is being swept along on its back.
Readings: Geoffrey Hill’s strong essays on poetics, and Thomas Keenan on the (im)possibility of justice.
*we have knocked and are waiting for a sound.*
