No, the trouble is not Facebook, nor
the work I'm trying to get done around the house, nor what anyone
else may be doing to hinder me. The trouble is the quality of
attention I am bringing. I am scattered, distracted, and worried: and
hence dismissive, judgmental, and small-minded.
Once again, I have to admonish myself
to slow down, to do less, to take more time. Bring my full attention
to bear. The craving for quick reassurance grows by what it feeds on:
wasted time will lead only to wasted time. Enough.
Last night we swam in the pool, and sat
in the jacuzzi, with a cold rain pelting down on us. Not really very
cold, but cold by contrast, and not one's idea of an August beach
vacation; not unless one is a native Northwesterner.
I have been down to the beach only
once. It worries me that I view the sea, this time, with no awe. It
does not even seem particularly big. It doesn't draw my eye. I
reached yesterday in my poem, trying to find my way to it, but
there's really nothing sillier than trying to force an awe that I'm
not feeling. It will only jeopardize my future responses. I called
the water “obsidian,” which is pretty enough, but it was just
poetizing: the water I had been watching earlier was cloudy gray,
freckled with butter-colored dots. Not a bit like obsidian. Stop, Mr
Dale; stop before you draw yourself into further absurdities.
Restless, restless. And Seamus Heaney
gone now, how can that be?
I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois
to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:--
Timor mortis conturbat me.
I see that poets, among the best,
Play their pageants and go to rest,
Rhyme they never so skillfully:--
Timor mortis conturbat me.
2 comments:
If you are a flitting firefly today, maybe that is what you are best being right now. Not concrete, but a shifting sand dune. Why not shrug and say, "ah, bother."
And he was no age, was he, the dear man, though I suppose he'd have seemed old to me at that age when I was young. I find the sadness and tendency to weepiness I experience about him something of a relief, withal.
'Obsidian' is always one to be careful of I think, like fingernail-paring moons and children's hands being starfish. I used the latter once and have felt bad about it ever since. I like the butter-coloured dots very much though. And 'timor mortis', and also that one about 'all standeth on change like a midsummer rose'.
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