rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Eight, Day Two

Saturday brought a few brief sprinkles barely worthy of the name, and a few distant peals of thunder, though I saw no lightning flash. The ground didn't even get wet, and the few dark drops that appeared on my canvas yard chairs vanished within two minutes. The clouds that drifted across the bright sky were enjoyable to watch, but their promise was empty.

Sitting in the back yard once the rain had failed, I thought about the things I don't write. That has been happening a lot lately. As I drift off to sleep a few words accumulate and form an image or two, but I don't put them on paper. When I wake up there will sometimes be an idea that almost invigorates me, but by the time I'm out of the bed it will evaporate. Sitting at the computer with plenty of time, I just can't organize the streams of thoughts that sometimes flow through my mind. I keep thinking this is important, I should do something with it, and this could be the last chance I have to make a record of this event, this notion, this memory— but I never do. Not anymore. My will to be who I once thought I could be has evaporated like those raindrops. What becomes of the energy of youth once you have grown old enough to have found a use for it? In my case, it's just gone.

At the moment I'm thinking that if I dredged deep enough now I could surely find something that, if I forced myself to start writing about it, might turn into something interesting, as has sometimes happened in the past, but now has grown so infrequent that I can barely believe I ever succeeded at it, in however minor a way. thoughts and images flit by like flies, teasing the corner of my eye, and before I can focus on them have moved on, as though they had no time to waste on me, their originator. Even my ideas, even the most feeble of them, have a death wish. Nothing, it seems, has the power to prod me to action of any significant kind. In the midst of world historic events, I can't even conjure nostalgic personal trivialities. All I can do is picture myself crawling into bed and munching a bit of chocolate as I read myself to sleep. I have sunk into utter insignificance even in my own eyes. No wonder the world ignores me. I'm a bore.




Sunday Verse



The Fury of Abandonment


by Anne Sexton


Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush
pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against
his starving bloated stomach,
I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off
for a medical experiment
and his claws wept.
I know that much.

I know that it is all
a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching
comes love
like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands
before the abandonment of the city,
out of the bars and shops,
a thin file of ants.

I've been abandoned out here
under the dry stars
with no shoes, no belt
and I've called Rescue Inc. –
that old-fashioned hot line –
no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them,
my own nostrils, shoulders, breasts,
navel, stomach, mound, kneebone, ankle,
touch them.

It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York City
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.




Bonus: Peter Gabriel's song Mercy Street was inspired by Anne Sexton's play of the same name. It's one of the moodiest pieces of music I know, and for some reason I've listened to it at least two or three times a week for the last couple of months. This can't be a good sign.
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