There's a Name for That
And it's not onomatopoeia or splut! Maybe it is onomatopoeia, name-making. Labeling, the old Adamic pastime, assigned for to please the old Adam (says old Eve) (All-Hallowed Eve). (It wasn't until all the animals and plants were named that Adam started to mope.) The needed name is to describe/define the mental state of two-fold, i.e., both the mood oscillation and the conviction (which wavers) that it means something. Also to the waver itself. (It's a waver! It's a particular!)
Mut (Mutti!) for Mut-ability. Or mute - ability (The skill for Saying No More) Who has it?
Point: She has it. Philomela (& her sister too!) Jug jug said Mr. Eliot.
I'll say no more.
BM «Bux
No Name Trees Filter the Twi-Light
And my unfavorite crazy (Charley Manson #3) sits down right outside my window. The stillness of evening gathers. He leaves. I rejoice. He comes back! I...gar, we've been through this before. What does it say, that I always (okay, often) have only a pane of glass (I was going to say a page of sass) between me & the mad? —Well, we all live in cities, we all love coffee. Crazy homeless people need a place to sit.
"He's there all the time," the nice blonde girl in the green apron says. "Then he's not following me?" I ask. She sidles away. I want to see Lee, but it's only Wednesday, so I came down the hill & ate cake.
Broadway «Bux
It Doesn't Stop
Which is, of course, "its" strength & my weakness. I catch a pretty part—catch sight of a pretty part—as it were, on the fly, & I want to grab it, keep it, but what I catch is never quite the bushtit of paradise that I saw hopping around in the jacaranda tree.
Even I. (Especially I, for if all this fluency isn't washing through my apertures, then where? Everywhere.) I will stop, after one or two (or three hundred or four thousand) more attempts to catch "it" — or some fragment, vestige, hint, thrill, shadow or riff. And then...how odd the mind is. Truly Buddha, but a screen. No, not only a screen. A screen in 2 senses (in 6 senses) as well as the beam of light piercing the darkness. The theater itself, the audience. But: what about the film, the projector, the projectionist—a bored skinny guy reading pulp magazines. (Who? Izzy? Iggy? I can see him.…but I don't think it does to extend this metaphor too far.)
Caffe Ladro
Frog Singing
Even a Frog singing "I'm Looking Over a 4-Leaf Clover" doesn't sound quite cool, though it might if you didn't know the song is/was/is a part of mind-mincing & macerating popular culture from the 50's. I got minced & macerated the first time around, thanks.
And now I want an inflow & upsurge of shing- shing shining light life likeness. Darkness lysis. And a vision (Hey, why do you think they're called visions?) (See? See??) I see the yellow light. Light yellow light like expensive butter, no color added. The very best.
*
I've been waking up again (badly this morning because of the 500 drunken idiots milling around outside & all of them revving their stupid engines & roaring up Mercer). I turned off my fan too soon, had to get up & switch it back on. But then I went back to sleep & dreamed that Meredith Getches was wearing an Indian/Paki dress (like that blue-purple one I got at Cost Plus in 1973 or so, only long) & a head scarf. It was to spite everyone, I think. Then I woke up all mushy & relaxed like I used to get—and I got up actually feeling pretty good, as if everything was all right. Well, that didn't last long in my cage, but still. To wake up any way but full of dread...it's enough to give a girl—hope.
BM «Buck’s
None For Me, Thanks
That's what I said again & again, and they wouldn't listen. In fact, they laughed. And here I am—still & always/ever—so I suppose they knew what they were laughing about. The joke's on you.
And you and you and you.
But not on my kids, the ones I didn't have (o what a good girl am I). And now don't I bear my tribulations with...
sweet & sour sauce. Hold the plums. No, but I do bear my tribs & hardly complain at all. I do, however, look daggers at cell-phone boors.
*
It's the first day of Jacket. I hot-footed it over to the Montlake Library wearing my coat & did not get too warm. Did not sweat.
Last night I dreamed an awful woman at the temp job (sort of cross between RTA & PLU Library) told me I'd gotten a telegram that I could pick up after 7 & I realized this was their sneaky way of asking me not to come back & when I tried to tell the woman that all they had to do was say so, she snapped, "Get over it." like I was protesting being fired—when I didn't care about their stupid job anyway.
*
Cool & quiet—my idea of heaven. Just add Tomas. Sleep on my pillow? Sure, you can sleep on my pillow. I'll make room.
No word from Lee.
OW «Bucks
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