satyrsday’s childe & a list

warm. sun, babies, allergic reactive dogs, the shedding of weight. somehow the time has begun to move quite quickly, as if it were a distant house on a piece of earth hit suddenly by a landslide. the rabbit hole. dark, no light comes in, the whiskers twitch of necessity, the eyes too damaged to make out much at all. when there’s an app for it they will come.

mater misericordiae

thoughts of work in california bring hives and intense itching. waves of sunlight, interdependent and caught in this eternal loop of choral mysticism. the scale goes both ways, either it is this, or it is that. i’m no longer sure of much at this stage. the boland’s bread van drove up the avenue, paper-wrapped loaves, hot cross buns at eater. we devour to diminish to deviate from the archetypes of the catholic church. must it be this way? there’s not much chance of it being anything else, i’m afraid.

a word to the willing. perhaps there’s an office chair in the room. maybe not, and then there’s this slanted sun coming in from beyond the nearby roofs. it’s not that i wouldn’t love this lifestyle, or to stay at home and work from there. putting the expectation out in the universe, wondering what will come. often i remark that “the universe will provide.”

days to defense: 8

number of short stories read this weekend: 7

goals scored in second half by man utd: 4

hours of sleep last night: 5

bottles of sharps drank yesterday: 3

days to carpinteria: 69

friesday’s childe.

april sun shunts through the window, backlighting the yellow flowers on the roof opposite. a bird calls, “chek, chek, chek,” over and over again. i might say repeatedly, but whatever. on the pile of books-memory wall, house of prayer no.2, the bird artist, rests a small bird’s nest mo found in california recently and brought back for me.

thomas lynch, poet, writer, undertaker, writes, “we are born with our last breath in us,” and this rocks me in a deep place. he’s a wonderful writer and i find his perspective on life and death to be comforting and realistic. there’s a pile of papers here on the desk asking for attention and the last thing i want to do is give them that time. i’d rather keep reading the m.j. hyland book i bought yesterday at the egsa sale.

a glottal stop of post-it notes reminds me of my pledge to play more tennis this year. fallen down on that aspect of life quite heavily, actually. numbers, emails, local players to contact. i’ll get to it soon. instead, the scribbled blue notes on my laptop’s shell remind me of the small changes the book needs. i’m avoiding the act of opening the file and looking through the mess that’s there. the edited pages sit beside the bust of joyce, dead. i can see the purple, pink, blue and lavender post-it’s jeanne leiby inserted at particular points. they’re a stark contrast to the minuscule penciled notes from jim wilcox, so neat, orderly, and arranged. truth-be-told, there’s nothing in the manuscript without their guidance. glory be to god for dappled things.

i have a cabinet of curiosities in back of the laptop, against the wall. an old jar with bird feathers, a painted rock, a metal flower i stole from d.h. lawrence’s ranch in new mexico, four sand dollars from the beach at santa claus lane in carpinteria, a leprechaun’s head britt found the day mo and i moved into the house on ovid street, a small metal buddha, a shiny red lobster, a bobbing-head turtle/dinosaur, king cake babies of old, a rock, a piece of wood, a shell like a spaceship, a blue tin with a ribbon of paper mo wrote on when i got the job at san marcos high school and two rocks and a piece of sea glass.

i have a photocopy of the first page of ulysses from yesterday’s archive class. i must reread the book again, for the umpteenth time, remind myself of the thin line of matter that connects us each to the other. the mess is obvious, the map lost, the feeling one of overwhelm, the day early, the sun warm on my forehead. this is the first day of my nineteenth year in america. doesn’t quite seem realistic that i flew into san diego on a puddle-jumper from LAX after a non-stop flight from heathrow all those years ago. the sun shattered san diego bay into spangles of blue water and white-sailed boats that day.