I’m afraid of this poem I’m writing. I don’t like the speaker. The poem has grown to a monstrous size… I no longer know what the poem wants. I feel numb and vague, a feeling that over the past two days I’ve associated with drinking too much milk. Actually it’s not numbness I feel but a surplus of energy. Like a pot that I have to stir or pour off.
I’m committed to an idea. I’m worried that the idea is wrong. I’m worried that it doesn’t matter whether the idea is right or wrong.
Human beings are not meant to be compared. Everything about the world seems formless to me. The divisions between things are either infinite or non-existent. I can’t decide whether I am sticking my hand through something or tracing its edge.
Who decides anything?
What do they know and how can they be stopped?
Difficulty at court: the prince seeks his own reflection.
Fruitless endeavour. No blame.
The superior person does not cross to the far shore.
The cat is running back and forth across the apartment, calling in a desperate voice. I’m sitting at my desk. All day I have felt a lightness in my head that last night I attributed to the cocoa I made an hour or two before sleeping. But when I started reading one of the stories I was going to be talking about with my students today it became immediately clear why I hadn’t been able to focus. What I had avoided thinking about immediately rose to the forefront of my mind.
I prolong uncertainty through willful procrastination. Which is how I can spend almost an entire day at home alone even when the temperature rises above twenty degrees celsius in the first week of November. In Toronto, Canada.
I want to take my time thinking about something without having to act. The truth is that I would rather take action but I am unsure about the consequences of action built upon premises which seem to me abstract, in the way that all of reality can seem that way.
I understand that consequences follow actions. That reactions are emotional as well as physical and can take time to settle.
I promised myself something. I started writing a long poem. I thought “When I’ve finished this poem I might know what to do.” I can’t finish the poem until some action has been taken. The poem is seven pages long and might be twelve to fifteen pages when it’s done.
Another promise to myself. That I would write out how I felt in plain language so that I might begin to accept it. I have been working denial like a surface that is to be figured.