| 8/4/02 While everyone dreams, I get to watch the moon as the world turns. My slippery thoughts come and go like passing clouds. For a short while everything is right with the world. And me. He is wasting me and I love it. He doesn't know what he has done. The AC in my car is still broken and its one of the hottest summers Rochester has seen. Being forced to drive with my windows down I now understand why dogs like to hang their heads out of moving vehicles. The smells are overwhelming, sometimes intoxicating. (or nauseating) The landfill, the sweet freshly cut hayfields, some unidentifiable blossoms between Hance Rd and County Line Rd, the cow farm, the vegetable stand. Did I never notice them before? I was reading H.D.'s poem "Mid-day" for the millionth time. Each reading means something new. I never understood her use of the parable of the seeds being scattered and shrivelling up. For some reason tonight I've made a connection. We are seeds, tiny little entities full of potential for much beauty and life. We fling ourselves onto the world and hope we fall on fertile ground. A ground where we can break through, fearlessly stretch out our limbs and thrive and grow into something hardy, something deep-rooted and salient. Of course, in the poem H.D. falls into the crevices of hot rocks and shrivels up and dies but I think we all die once in awhile. Today I will not be defeated. |
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