HOA AND KEATON are making a snake hat out of colored construction paper. Waylon naps in his bouncy chair, the little cherub, plump and pink. The day dissolves. K hops like a rabbit, shirtless, diaper sticking out of his jeans. And I drink strong oolong tea. It's dark now outside, and there's laundry to bring in off the line. The dishes are clean though, and I steal these moments to write, free of the day's mundane gravity, its irritating beauty and sweetness, and hard ugly edges. To be in Art without that tugging need to perform or create something suitable to others. I'm free of it—in prose's rate and measure. The dead god can't reach me here from his cold, spirit-dead world. Language moves by image, an instantaneous transmission of these perceptions. The small nothing moments pass through us here forming inner lives. They are beyond us. Not personal, but stand out in that wild unconscious surge to become translated new. To tend these passages of quiet pleasure or routine after-dinner digesting. And under it you-know-what holds firm—obsidian, inert coil.
Posted by Dale at May 15, 2004 02:50 PM