“September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.” ~ Alexander Theroux, from Darconville’s Cat

“Orange Leaves” (1965, Sumi ink on paper)
by Mark Tobey

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“Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.” ~ Andre Breton, from Nadja

Saturday, late afternoon. Mostly cloudy, 77 degrees. Make that Saturday night, 74 degrees.

So this is how my day began:

Dreaming: Nooooo. Make it stop. Make it stop . . . (pounds something imaginary then bolts upright)

Thinks to self: No. Wait. What was that? Seriously? Did I just dream that?

Says out loud to dogs: Whoa. You know it’s time to make yourself get up when Kris Jenner enters your dream.

Dog 1 to Dog 2: Is she having weird dreams again?

Dog 2 to Dog 1: Obviously. She’s already talking to us, and it isn’t even noon yet.

Seriously? Kris Jenner? Whyohwhyohwhy?!? Those K women are already everywhere, so I certainly don’t need them intruding upon my dreams. Of course, the result was . . . wait for it . . . a migraine.

Surprise!

Anyway, I spent most of the afternoon reworking a poem I began yesterday. I was going to post it, but I don’t think that I’m ready. Instead, let me share some truth is stranger than fiction facts with you:

Source: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

I can’t decide which person I am gladdest that I am not—the person who destroyed the moon landing footage or the financial analyst who advised the honchos at Yahoo to pass on buying Google.

More later. Peace.

Music by James Vincent McMorrow, “We Don’t Eat”

                   

The Motive for Metaphor

You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon—

The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were not quite yourself,
And did not want nor have to be,

Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,

The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound—
Steel against intimation—the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.

~ Wallace Stevens

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