unstudied expression
8/14/04
Challenging rain. My throat ached yesterday morning; today it’s my heart. I love the woods for their unstudied expression. And – no need to keep them clean. I won’t write about memory, or awareness, or issues, or interpretations. I have even lost my way to details.
The sun is lightening this paper, although the sun basks behind thick banks of cloud. The intrusion of forms and color disoriented me for days. The sense of privacy, the feeling I need to be ALONE, that interruption would be a disaster – I can rest in 3rd bed as a whole group of people who are tuned in to the mysterious.
I hear my mother’s voice when I write. Like Virginia Woolf’s “angel.” Approval/disapproval and/or their opposites, doesn’t it matter? It’s a sort of gel that infiltrates and coats, substanceless, colorless, odorless. How long can I keep it up?
| Who would I dialogue with? Rage? Rebellion? Privacy? Shame?
Disturbing revelations by Captured Hummingbird. I don’t want a house. I have never wanted a house. It’s a charade. |