Crux Ansata's Journal|
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|Saturday, February 25th, 2017|
|Want to know something weird?
With my wife gone, my memory is getting better. Not just short term; I keep remembering things I've not known for years...
|Wednesday, February 8th, 2017|
|determining marital compatibility with a netflix account
When I start a show on Netflix, I feel obligated to see it through. I enjoy it, else I wouldn't have committed to it, but even when sometimes it seems a chore, coming home to the same thing night after night, I see it through to the end.
My wife -- my ex-wife -- watches until it bores here. Then she finds something new, never looking back.
|Friday, February 3rd, 2017|
On the positive side, I totally didn't accidentally bite the back of my tongue all day! On the negative side, I'm pretty sure I swallowed most of a wisdom tooth last night.
Want to hear something sad? I keep meaning to go to the dentist, but I don't have a friend I trust to pick me up when the anesthetic wears off.
|Tuesday, January 24th, 2017|
|expect the unexpected?
Today in my mailbox I find a book I have no memory of ordering -- or being aware if the existence of -- and a slip saying to pick up a package at the post office where the "sender" space, usually left blank, reads simply "RUSSIA". I hope it's more bizarre than it probably will be.
|Sunday, January 22nd, 2017|
I've been reading contemporary poets in English. Both for the enjoyment and in my attempt to figure out how free verse works. The past couple of days it was Wendell Berry. I can understand intellectually the whole rootedness thing, but I don't feel the appeal of the whole regionalist thing. Yeah, yeah, birds make noise and you like to walk in the woods. But I'm trying to appreciate what he does, while what he says grates on my nerves.
And when I couldn't take it any more, I wrote my own damn Berry poem. Think of it as "The Metaphysician Answers the Pastoralist, Sung in the Key of Berry":
I am what may be called
A "Natural Liberal" by those who
Study such things. But because
I have no homeland, I've nothing
To preserve. Rather, my homeland
Is in death -- or in eternity --
And I don't see it in bird or tree
But when the eternal can be glimpsed
Shining through the cracks.
|Saturday, January 21st, 2017|
I think my favorite line in poetry is from "Leda and the Swan":
And Agamemnon dead.
The brutality of loss and love and death, the desperation of survival. But more the blow to the reader. Yeats had so mastered the form he could break it, make it a weapon. We feel the life gone, but we also survive with her. We don't just know he is gone; we feel he is lost.
Only half a line, though, I suppose. But I shall make up for it by saying the line I feel is most fun is from "Annabel Lee", but maliciously quote half a stanza!
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
The third line is my favorite. (I always hear it as "shall" rather than "can." Oddly optimistic of me. "Can" implies a stasis. There is no future; there is no life. Poe seems to be trying to say there is one eternal night. Time has stopped. No matter how many moons there may be, no matter how many stars in the sky, there never is a morning; only a memory. "Shall" for me has a hint of defiance. It's not just that they cannot be severed, as if they were conjoined twins joined at the head, but that he refuses to let her go. He sees a future -- of pain, but a future nonetheless. "Shall" returns power to the sufferer. But I was saying:) It has a music in it that makes me wonder if Poe was chuckling at himself or chuckling at his reader. I almost find it too fun for the poem, but if ever there were a poem that needs a bit of the piss take out of it, that's the one.
|Friday, January 20th, 2017|
I had a dream Henry was dead. And I was relieved to finally be rid of Lisa.
|Thursday, January 19th, 2017|
She's no longer a hole beneath my diaphragm. She's become a broken leg, poorly set. I'm crippled, for life. Every step reminds me of her. But I never want to go through it again.
|Monday, January 9th, 2017|
|T.S. Eliot is better than me. Go read him.
Poorly planted, our love
Took root only in me.
Uprooted -- more cut low;
It still tries to sprout in this abandoned plot.
It was not the flower, but a shell.
A shell cutting me off from a world
I could know only through her.
But if a shell, what is missing in my gut?
And still I'd take her back.
Welcome her back.
Crawl back into my shell.
Obviously, other flaws aside, the last stanza is missing something. I haven't been satisfied with anything yet, but my least unsatisfied version is a final line: "(Could you be my seed?)"
Also playing with the final line of the second stanza. Perhaps: "But if just a shell, what's been ripped from my gut?" Still working with the metaphor.
All I can say for sure is I liked it much more before I wrote it down.
Did I mention T.S. Eliot is better than me? Reading him I am struck by his use of repetitions, refrains. I want to learn how to do that.
|Saturday, January 7th, 2017|
It's curious: I don't feel that my life is ruined. I feel that it is over. I feel I've become a minor player, waiting for my cue to leave the stage.
|Wednesday, January 4th, 2017|
There is a girl, a teenager, who goes to my church. Sitting in the first pew, I can see half the congregation -- half of the part who receive -- if I so choose. Every week, she receives in her hand, steps one step to the right, and, facing the altar, consumes the Host. She always wears pants, jeans generally. I wonder about that sensation.
Wearing costumes provides a fascinating, visceral perspective on the other. Make-up, clothes, hair. I understand more why women are more conscious of the physical than men are. (Weirdly, women are more skeptical of this than men.) Perhaps it is in dialogue with the gaze of the other, but even from within, there is a different view from a woman's uniform than from a man's.
At the moment, I'm exploring the sensation of how some skirts, for all their appearance of openness, actually force one to bend at the knee rather than the hip. It is peculiar, but a sensation I have heard described in the past, so I suspect it is not in my head.
|Sunday, December 4th, 2016|
| I've lost my voice.
I've forgotten how to write.
Yet I hear music!
|about an haiku
I can't recall the rules for a classic haiku, but I do recall I have always struggled with a nature image that signals the season.
Cold seeps through my walls.
I find I do not miss you --
but I miss missing.
...because how long has it been?
sitting here alone
I find it's not you I miss
but missing someone
What's the word for the feeling of needing someone to miss?
|Wednesday, November 30th, 2016|
The person about whom I dream most often is dead.
Wonder what that means.
|Monday, November 28th, 2016|
By poking what memories of the years I still have, I have realised all my sexual perversions had been set by about seven or soon thereafter. It is weird knowing if someone knew how to read Henry, they'd be able to know that about his future already.
I told Lisa before we were even married that any relationship requires a degree of ossification, since in order to build trust you must appear more or less the same each time the other person encounters you. She said I was overthinking things, which she said a lot, but if she had listened to me "overthink" marriage or "overthink" my belief in an unknowable self that must be learned by interrogation by the self as much as by others, we might not have ended up like this.
But now one relationship is closed, I'm trying to enhance by character fluidity for a while, at least. Especially to reclaim the two things I sacrificed for this relationship I most should have saved: My voice and my sense of sexual self-identity.
|Friday, November 18th, 2016|
When I was young,
I believed that one day we would find
-- maybe by machine --
the most perfect poem.
And all else would be silence.
|Wednesday, November 16th, 2016|
|infection dismorphic disorder
I wonder if one could find a doctor to prescribe oneself a disease. For example, should one want to experience tuberculosis. Aside from my own morbid curiosity, though, bug chasers were/are a real phenomenon. It seems to me if body dismorphic disorder is no longer entirely ruled out, with amputations now considered ethical, and even euthanasia, it would seem a touch of the white death is within one's rights.
Perhaps I'll ask my psychiatrist tomorrow...
|Monday, November 14th, 2016|
|i'm a horrible person
So it was at a six year old's birthday party that I realised I actually know how to say "fuck everybody in the world" in three languages.
In other news, that anti-social anxiety medicine ... is much more "anti-social" than "anxiety medicine"?