Sunday, March 11, 2018

Under the Gun.

Dear Beloved,

These are the days of our disintegration.  Everything is broken, gone, or rusted through.  The people who shaped my thoughts, my being, are dying daily.  Who knows, now, what it means to 'hang up the phone.'  What we have now is 'call ended.'  The lack of individual will is well-noted.

The streets are sinking, the dust is piling up.  Little expressions like singing Happy Birthday feel like tiny squawks and puny gesture.  Minute bolsters against decay like invitations to tea and secret societies are too little, too late.  We are all of us living in the shadow of imminent loss- every morning I wake up and turn on the radio: when I hear Bob Dylan being played, I think, "oh hell, he's gone...."

Don't bother to check the news, it's true, because it always has been, we are only still yet dying and not dead, and so we will need to fill the time as usual.  Today I will make drawings and a little noise, wash some clothes, and maybe read again some of Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees.