?

Log in

No account? Create an account
 
 
30 June 2005 @ 09:29 pm
the rolling rustle of the leaves  
Throughout the day as my thoughts are whirling around, random bits of fluff collect in the lint trap of my brain, and now and then I scrape them out and share them. But you know how sometimes you pull the lint-trap out halfway and start to strip off the lint and a big chunk of it gets sucked back down into the dryer to be lost? Yeah, so. I had some thoughts. And then...ehhhhh, not so much.

Somewhere I have a scribbled list of heterosexual romance movies that I like very much, trivial fodder for a post someday. And in a purely mental state is a list of vague, idiosyncratic neuroses of mine, like the fear that if I am parked on the street and swing my leg out of the driver's side door, a car will speed by and whip it off. Or the fear that if I walk too closely to the edge along an overpass, a stranger will push me over. These are generally mild worries, of course, and I worry more about the possibility that when I'm seventy-seven these stray thoughts will mutate into daylight terrors that force me to huddle to the sides of buildings, making warding signs at passers-by as I mutter to the pigeons, who understand me very well, nervous little men that they are.

I had a great day. I was productive at work--and that was pretty much my entire day, and I'm happy with myself. On my way to a late lunch I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the bus and had one of those moments when your contemptuous familiarity with the world sloughs off and you feel eight years old again, like you're seeing what's around you for the first time. How strange it all is. The older I get, the harder it is for me to feel that. I think you feel it more frequently when traveling. And along those lines I had a whole train of thought this afternoon about the size of cities and why people travel, but I don't feel a huge need to put it into typed words. In the big scheme of things it's probably about as important as the time I spent wondering how long it would take a group of people trapped in the metro tunnel to cannibalize each other, and whether I'd actually manage to run if a mass of zombies appeared around the tunnel bend.

I bought two rings yesterday. Simple glass rings, a dollar each, made in India: one blue, one green. I've decided the blue one is for sobriety and the green one is for health. I'm not good with rings. They catch on pockets and get in the way of fondling and other fun things, but I'm going to try and keep these on. See how it goes.

And just this moment as I opened The Book of Disquiet to find a subject line for this post, the random quote I got was:
"We suddenly noticed, in the way we notice we're alive, that the air was filled with the singing of birds, and that, like ancient perfumes in satins, the rolling rustle of the leaves was more deeply entrenched in us than our awareness of hearing each other."

I'm looking forward to the weekend. :)
 
 
 
darkseaglass on July 1st, 2005 04:39 am (UTC)
How beautiful.
Pamgoosegirl9 on July 1st, 2005 04:49 am (UTC)
Eloquent, reflective ... beautiful.
ex_dovil323 on July 1st, 2005 10:02 am (UTC)
You give great word, just saying.

And I'm glad you're happy and so I give you a Dance of Happiness with pink chiffon scarves and balloons filled with butterflies. It might quickly turn into the Waltz of Death so I'll dance faster before the little buggers can run out of air.
(Deleted comment)
tabaquitabaqui on July 1st, 2005 03:31 pm (UTC)
Oh now. That quote. I like that a LOT, and then to find he's a Portuguese poet!
How very nice.
*i'm half portuguese*

So, yes, now i must go find and own and obsess over, because that quote really really is very neat.
Thank you!
Anna S.: zenfen_mooneliade on July 1st, 2005 03:44 pm (UTC)
The Book of Disquiet is *amazing*. I've never sat down and read it all the way through. I look at it more as a Book of Days, something where you can sit and grab passages at random. And in fact the passages in the book are quite like that; associative, but not really narrative (from first page to last, I mean) as far as I can tell. :)
tabaquitabaqui on July 1st, 2005 05:58 pm (UTC)
Sounds even cooler!

I have a book like that 'Points for a Compass Rose' by Evan Connell. Very stream of consciousness poetry of a sort, strange and wonderful.

Anna S.: trees-blueeliade on July 1st, 2005 06:13 pm (UTC)
I have a book like that 'Points for a Compass Rose' by Evan Connell. Very stream of consciousness poetry of a sort, strange and wonderful.

I have that book! :D Or, wait...I think it may be "had" that book. I might have had to sacrifice it when I was moving across the country in my car. Hmm. Must check bookshelf.
tabaquitabaqui on July 1st, 2005 06:31 pm (UTC)
A friend of mine gifted me with that book ages ago - probably over ten years ago and i've just loved it. I think i used some in my 'Credence' fic... or was planning to... No, maybe i did.
*shakes head - listens to rattle*

Anyway, yeah - good book. I love poetry but not terribly...i dunno - odd poetry? I like Maxine Kumin and Ezra Pound and Robinson Jeffers and W.H. Auden... And e.e. cummings... Maybe i DO like odd poetry! Heh.

Well, and i like Samuel R. Delany whose prose is a very odd sort of poetry...
:)
(Deleted comment)
Skippymirrorskippy on July 5th, 2005 02:06 am (UTC)
Hullo, just sneaking out of lurkdom to say how much I like Pessoa's stuff. It's like no matter what page you open to, there's a line that will stop and get you to read it again.

Nothing else to say :-)

:runs back into lurkdom: