PS my reading for the day was 1.1.3.5.6 (The Creative) –> 40 (Deliverance). I know the I Ching would totally hate what I am about to say and call it arrogance but

Also there was a Tarot question at pub trivia tonight and I OWNED IT.

Cirrus fringes
ring the horizon.

“Where two or more
are gathered…”
Name, name, name.

They
will be–are–
together still
somewhere in time;

they won’t be
together again

though “again” is
what they always want

Later

To be beautiful
and powerful enough
for someone
to want to break me
up

into syndicated ripples.

Later I’ll try
to rise from these dead.

How much would this body
have had to be otherwise in order
not to be mine,

for this world
not to exist?

When would that difference
have had to begin?

The old lady invited me to her soiree. Maybe I was even
older than she was. I was mysterious, at any rate, a rarity
until the room filled up. Then not. When she handed
out chocolates, she forgot me. I gesticulated as if it were funny
and she gave me two pink creams. Me! As if I
would have ever wanted these!

They drive me
out to sea.

Secretly, I am still
________, the mysterious.

I speak in splashes.

Later
I have the lonely dreams.

Rae Armantrout

having only
self-love in common–

and what is that?

Still, what a pair they’ve been!

Some think we can
achieve escape velocity

if only we can make
our thoughts bounce

harder and harder off
the near walls–

the limits–
of what is known,

what is trite,
about these characters.

We have it
on good authority

that we’re dying
to express this

one thousand times more
or less precisely,

dying to practice

Rae Armantrout

Rae Armantrout

This morning’s I Ching reading is 41.1 (Decrease) –> 4 (Youthful Folly). I actually a little bit love this reading, as it counsels withdrawal (the changing line’s invocation literally translates to “go quickly when one’s tasks are finished”) and retraction, activities I am all about these days. Youthful Folly, the outcome, used to be a least-favorite hexagram, but now I think of it a little bit like the Tarot card The Fool. When one is young and preconceptions/expectations are undeveloped, one follows the Sage like a lantern in the woods. Not toward a final destination, but from point A to point B, then from point B to point C, and so on–in a spirit of innocence, trust and merriment.

Relinquishing a position of knowledge and leadership? Trusting my instincts without sharing them with anyone? Oh dudes. I can roll like that for sure.

Could not decide on an orchid at Whole Foods yesterday so I finally settled on a rod of delicately spiralling bamboo, which is supposed to bring good luck to a house and be un-killable.

I keep thinking of things to type and then deleting them, like a much dog-eared chapter. Where do I start? From which parts do I quote? Which vectors are meaningful? I guess I am going to go stretch out in the sunlight that rolls over my couch in the mornings and read until I get too hungry to think. Then I’ll make an egg. Happy Sunday.

I have been sitting here in bed for some length trying to think of some upside. On the upside…no, I don’t have any soup at the ready; I finished that batch of wonton soup with A & K before the movie at the ‘bama on Tuesday. Those fever dreams were not particularly pleasant. Having a shitload of awesome new books provides no comfort because when I am sick I am too dizzytired to read for any concentrated length of time. I guess I do have those new Absolutely Fabulous DVDs? And some killer-soft new pajamas. Well, whatever. This is now happening. The best thing to do is put on some mindless television (Parks and Rec, I expect) and zone out for a few days while I pump my body full of fluids and immune-boosting, virus-killing herbs, teas and over-the-counter drugs.

When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks
shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t
you but some alarmed pretender, I went on
running, shouting now into the sky,
continuing your fame and luster. Since I’ve
been incinerated, I’ve oft returned to this thought,
that all things loved are pursued and never caught,
even as you slept beside me you were flying off.
At least what’s never had can’t be lost, the sieve
of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone,
wedding ring, a single repeated dream,
a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions
of the sea written in the desert, your broken
umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.

Dean Young