Monday, August 15

This is what is wrong: we, only we, the humans, can retreat from
ourselves and
                                                                                     not be
                                                                                     altogether here.
We can be part full, only part, and not die. We can be in and
out of here, now,
at once, and not die. The little song, the little river, has banks.
We can pull up
                                                                                      and sit on the banks.
We can pull back
from the being of our bodies, we can live a
portion of them, we can be absent, no one can tell.
 - Jorie Graham
from Other
i hear it in the deep heart's core
the château of my heart

  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov