Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered
through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own
discontinuities.
It is unwise, it would seem, to drink a large cup of coffee too early in the morning. From there the day becomes a simulacrum of the heart's increased beat, a small, nameless bird sitting in the arches and hammocks of a green tree, red berries of dubious edibility wreathing his movements--bird like I suppose is how you'd describe them. Though perhaps it's not fair to describe, at least in writing, a bird's movements as bird like. It is more akin to certain kinds of hip hop dancing, popping and locking, each movement designed to be at once dramatic and distinct, or an Ethiopian dance that sees the dancer simultaneously nodding their head sharply and pushing their shoulders forward in a sharp rhythm--a bird winging into flight.
I didn't intend to write about a bird at all.
Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own discontinuities. I am thinking of how my daughter, seated backwards in her toddler car seat, always says, "forest," when we pass through this particular stretch of road, and now I am thinking of her absence, the quiet in the car. I am simultaneously composing a letter to a friend about my inability to see sentence structures properly, as well as my own failed attempts at writing, which should probably include laziness, as in the description of the dancers above that should by all rights be longer and more attuned to the fine details of their movement instead of the rough sketch I've offered. In particular because it's unfair to ask a reader to make that sort of jump with you without providing them some sort of scaffolding in the first place. But this sort of self-castigation could go on almost indefinitely and would probably have been more useful as marginalia or footnotes anyhow.
It is unwise, it would seem, to drink a large cup of coffee too early in the morning. From there the day becomes a simulacrum of the heart's increased beat, a small, nameless bird sitting in the arches and hammocks of a green tree, red berries of dubious edibility wreathing his movements--bird like I suppose is how you'd describe them. Though perhaps it's not fair to describe, at least in writing, a bird's movements as bird like. It is more akin to certain kinds of hip hop dancing, popping and locking, each movement designed to be at once dramatic and distinct, or an Ethiopian dance that sees the dancer simultaneously nodding their head sharply and pushing their shoulders forward in a sharp rhythm--a bird winging into flight.
I didn't intend to write about a bird at all.
Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own discontinuities. I am thinking of how my daughter, seated backwards in her toddler car seat, always says, "forest," when we pass through this particular stretch of road, and now I am thinking of her absence, the quiet in the car. I am simultaneously composing a letter to a friend about my inability to see sentence structures properly, as well as my own failed attempts at writing, which should probably include laziness, as in the description of the dancers above that should by all rights be longer and more attuned to the fine details of their movement instead of the rough sketch I've offered. In particular because it's unfair to ask a reader to make that sort of jump with you without providing them some sort of scaffolding in the first place. But this sort of self-castigation could go on almost indefinitely and would probably have been more useful as marginalia or footnotes anyhow.
This is all happening as I'm listening to Someone Like You by
Adele, which reminds me both that I am more apt to cry when I am alone for a
day or two, that I am perhaps, a crier. And I am simultaneously aware that this
particular song has been spoofed, quite amazingly, by SNL for this very
quality, while also thinking of the NPR story about the same subject that
identified the arpeggios as the root cause of the tear inducing quality. The
quiet therefore wasn't, true quiet, but that of human silence. I am also kind
of singing along, poorly, which is the only way I know how to sing, and I am
aware that I wouldn't do it with anyone else in the car, and thinking about
what that means, man's relation to society etc. I am also aware of gender norms
and stereotypes, and vaguely wondering about whether I should be enjoying the
song at all.
These thoughts are all happening in roughly two to three seconds
time, a rapid sort of association that makes me realize how effectively mimetic
poetry can be. These brief meditations, a few seconds time only, remind me
immediately of other things. First, the wonderful short story, "Good Old
Neon," by David Foster Wallace, in which he attempts to describe the
brain's speed of light functioning. Secondly, that perhaps I should not drink
strong coffee so early in the morning.
brain speed as light speed...they say our dreams are often only seconds yet they encompass many characters and be story like...
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