From June 7, 2005
Hot humid days. After a cold spring. Here in the city no one thinks of dry fields. Doomed crops. Growing up in corn country I can still hear the farmers' words-- few and far between-- about equipment, insects, always the weather. I see their missing parts of fingers gathered as sacrifice. A modern sculpture of what we still must give to the fertility gods.
From June 9, 2005
` I can feel the distance geting close. [Tori Amos}
For how long must I lie down with ghosts of the past? For how long will someone listen? Is anyone listening? Lately I feel that what I put out to the world evaporates into an unfelt mist. It seems the harder I try to make contact, the more others pull away. There is some law of human physics I cannot understand. A test I've failed. I understand sex and conflict. How we conquer what lies before us. I can't abide verbosity in others, and I have little to say verbally. Our culture talks more than ever and has never said so much of little or no importance. The more ways we have to communicate, the more blather clogs all of our modes of discourse.
