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rejectomorph

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Reset Sixteen, Day Forty [Jan. 17th, 2021|05:26 am]
rejectomorph
I've tried to remember Saturday, but it's all fuzzy. I think I ate something with cheese in it. Eating something with cheese has nothing to do with the fuzziness, it's just the one thing I think I remember. Then I got very sleepy around nine o'clock in the evening and took a nap that ended up lasting until two o'clock this morning. I woke with vague images of a disturbing dream, set offshore at the south end of Redondo Beach, where the land curves into the mounting cliffs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, a landscape I've always found a bit unnerving. Boats were involved, including one like a water-borne flying saucer which was occupied by the police, who maneuvered it to overtake and drown swimmers.

I've done things since then, but don't remember them clearly either, except for making a bowl of ramen— the last of the Nissin soy sauce flavor, which comes with a small packet of tasty sesame oil that is added after the soup is microwaved. It's very tasty. I must remember to buy more. But now I'm awake very early, hoping I can get back to sleep before dawn, and it's going to be a warm day. I wouldn't be surprised if flowers bloomed, but I don't have any and I'm not going anywhere so I won't know. Life feels very weird. Have I mentioned that lately? It does.




Sunday Verse


Pine Boat A-Shift


Anonymous (from "Shih Ching")


Pine boat a-shift
on drift of tide,
for flame in the ear, sleep riven,
driven; rift of the heart in dark
no wine will clear,
nor have I will to playe.

Mind that's no mirror to gulp down all's seen,
brothers I have, on whom I dare not lean,
angered to hear a fact, ready to scold.

My heart no turning-stone, mat to be rolled,
right being right, not whim nor matter of count,
true as a tree on mount.

Mob's hate, chance evils may, gone through,
aimed barbs not few;
at bite of the jest in heart
start up as to beat my breast.

O'ersoaring sun, moon malleable
alternately
lifting a-sky to wane;
sorrow about the heart like an unwashed shirt, I
clutch here at words,
having no force to fly.


Translated by Ezra Pound
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