Mail! The shadow on the lower half of the page is a sparrow flying over.
Bafter C came and I’m in the same issue as Steve Venright. How cool is that? Who’s this Helen White person? That’s intriguing work, working levels. And the second path crossing since her vispo chapbook came north with Dan Waber in April. I wonder when I notice someone’s writing how many times I’ve seen it without “noticing” before it started to sink in.
I got my chair back from neighbourhood cat aka, seat-snatcher. (Ah, but what a purr. If I take to wearing black, it’s not mourning but hair-camouflaging.) Looking down I see my magnetite bracelet has picked up a thing. From where? The bus? Bedside table? How long have I been wearing that bonus chain?
Sitting eating with Robyn Sarah’s Digressions, Pardon Me, p. 24
Because I do not have to mend it and because you do not seem to mind wearing it with a rip in the sleeve, your jacket is becoming a kind of statement to me of all that does and does not exist between us including about what you do not know about what I feel about you wearing it with a rip in the sleeve […] you are doubtless not thinking about. Besides there is always the danger that the mention of a rip in the sleeve might be interpreted as an offer to mend it, a desire to mend it, or a wish to see it mended. That is not what I meant at all; that is not it, at all.
It is a kind of head-expanded freedom, this state of being in choice, this state of not being impelled, freely associating and not compelled to react. Acts untethered. A mini mardi gras. Not needing to look after someone else because they an look after themselves and/or it is not your job.
And rereading bits of Jorge Luis Borges’ The Book of Sand, translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni. A mayfly landed on its page. As I arrived at The Night of the Gifts, when “a little mongrel ith yellow fur ran up barking to greet me”, a yappy dog started up nearby. Love it when the world and words collide by random chance like that.