Oswald Von Wolkenstein

I am uncertain as to why this blog has become like a Force Majeure; lacka-whatever-sical, and almost random spurts of journal-writing, but let me say, my halo has fallen over my eyes, and now it looks like Geordi La Forge’s prosthetic Visor. My camera has an inflammation on its trigger. I keep saying, “in due time, friend, in due time.” Permanent winking, like Wolkenstein.

Today, rain pours, licks the sores of the earth, the core of the earth, rebirth? Floating in the air like a Robin Hood-arrow. Pull me, shake me, as flexible as bone-marrow. And I think of Lorine Niedecker: “True bravery is / shown by performing / without witness what / one might be capable / of doing before all the / world.” I just discovered that there is a mental hospital about 10 miles down the road from me. If only it were abandoned.

I miss her. Sometimes in the forest I make crucial discoveries, like the Wright Brothers and their novel wind tunnel. Wind-tension diminishes, yet seems angular. Passionate attachments, like a Spanish dancer, like how the “mood” was changing in 1889 Paris, depictions of gaiety. Clouds drift in front of the sun, “None of these things are fool-proof.” Color outside, Monet-smears, Renoir must have been struck by gusts, blind aeronautical wind-cells. If only I could train myself to fly. I am knitting scenarios and I miss you already; my heart often suffers (clear framework) with different temperaments these days. Awkward stance, inward telescope of memory, whiplike flagellum. What would be a mind that could reach the speed of sound? Samuel Johnson: “there is nothing too little for so little a creature as man.”

I saw the half-clear sky spill rain. I miss her. My wrists are sighing. Felt something shoot up my arm; might’ve been a “shot" star. Might’ve-not’ve-been. Flowers cling to one another on cloudy days, the television still blaring John Wayne galloping on his horse on a dusty road, prefaced by nothing, pre-faced, the tip of the swallowed tongue closer to the whisper, or the rugged esophagus of the smoker’s pistil. An ant bit me, but I didn’t mind it so much. Grandma: “Scoop it out, but not heaping.” Plausible gunk.

Inquiries for photography submissions to: High Museum of Art, The Opal Gallery, Jackson Fine Art, Nexus Contemporary Art Center. Drew blanks, drew blanks on the walls of emails, drew snails walking in trails, faster than cheetahs. I wrote lyrics to a song a while back to the tune that is inside of my head, and it goes a little something like this:

There’s a man up the road, well he told me one day
how he was once in Vietnam, wishes the heat would stay away.
I walked on by, gave him a warm goodbye,
He gave me a crazy look, I smiled but shoulda cried,
'cause some people are grumpy no matter how hard you try,
like hearing ominous thunder but only seeing blue skies.
I told him I was Derrick, maybe I would seem him around,
he just yelled for his dog to come back safe and sound!
Well, I kept on walking, sweat running down my brow
No one is a stranger to me, but I often wonder how.
It must run in the family, but I really don’t know,
he had a good point about the heat, though, bring on the snow.

Waylayed into “way late.” Once, I was told, “I love it when you sit like that." “Like that" was with my right leg crossed over my left. Sometimes people can be shockingly-surprising.

I bet Shakespeare had a gimpy leg. His “Miranda” was likely based on a real-life pulchritudinous charmer that did the deed. While L. and I were in the grocery store (she calls it “the market”), I pointed out that the text on a particular bottle of whateveritmayhavebeentodrink resembled Russian writing. She then said, “Well, you’d know; you’re the smart one.” Embarrassing. I often wonder if she saw my reaction, the goofiness of my appearance, and I am well aware that this blog is public, so if you read this L., then first, “Hi!” and second, “So, did you?” (I remember everything you said).

Nothing settles your food like a Miles Davis tune, preferrably from “Kind of Blue.” Choo-choo.

Well, thass my “entry,” goo’bye.

Cortazar