Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward

Silver spear in the side of the fish, becomes a side dish.

Thelonious Monk, “Ruby, My Dear” plays.

She put my camera in her bag with her camera for a moment, and they became good friends. Camera, my dear. My dear, camera.

Xenakis’s “Bohor” (afterwards, thinking, I have GOT to find a way to hear this again: “To have great music we must commission it. To commission great music we must have great commissioners” also filling the sense [O! O’hara!]) is racketing me away; well, only in dazzling supplements. Also: “The collision of hail or rain with hard surfaces, or the song of cicadas in a summer field. These sonic events are made out of thousands of isolated sounds; this multitude of sounds, seen as totality, is a new sonic event.”

My youth, renewed like the eagles (I had always pondered this verse (my uncle having told me the depthly-meaning years before, but having splayed with forgottenness, I had offered to remember many times)), and Sir Thomas Browne came to the rescue again: David saith, (Psalm 103. 5.) that his youth is renewed like the Eagles. Now the Eagles, as Saint Austin observes on that place, when with age the upper bill is so over-grown, that they cannot feed, they use by beating their Bill against a rock, to break off the excrescence, and so by feeding to recover their strength and youth again.

Youthful streets, sighing reliefs, and I ponder Newman and Woodward. An affair to remember? Really? Well, otay: “We were married finally - of all strange places - a hotel in Las Vegas which gave us the bridal suite, the wedding cake, and most of the wedding guests, some of whom I haven’t seen again since that day,” recalls Joanne. “When the preacher had finished the ceremony, instead of kissing one another, we surprised our best man by simply falling into one another’s arms with a sigh of relief.” (...) “Certainly we’re different,” says Joanne; “that’s what keeps a marriage alive, plus the fact that I adore him. Just that. But think how boring a marriage would be if we were the same.” Ah, Woodward; once an ingénue, a sea-she.

I realized yesterday that I say “I’m sorry” a lot, when in fact it is perhaps more like feeling sympathetic for situations that make me feel at a loss for words, or maybe more like attempting to make one feel at ease, comfortable. I feel compulsively-conjumbled at times, but in the best way possible. My heart changed places with my brain, but I still feel the same. My treasure is not of this world, in fields or vineyards, nor in markets or luxury stores. I will follow the road with thorn and barefeet, for at the end is a whirlwind of greater Becoming.

I have let go of the echo in my mind, because it is no longer accessible. The powerful trigger of nostalgic development manifests itself over time, in a way that shapes our imaginary ruins. Sentimental lament. Mental mint. What is ever authentic? The unrevealed? Does the spectator ever come to a resting point? Three-dimensional spaces are life. Why bother overwhelming oneself with questioning such beautiful etchings when they just need to be left alone? Such is the case with humanity. “Genre” of one’s tastes can be transgressed between rhythms and melodies. If only one would give “chance” to things, rather than quickly diminishing their “value” with notions and assumptions. I would like to be where things are only happening within my comfort level, like maybe playing both sides of the chess board, or sitting cross-legged in the kitchen floor when the cats are lapping water from their bowls. Mediterranean mouths.

Running for the hills, but joyously. (Nevermind the man below. Too much coffee juicing the senses.)

Teorema