She has a dimple when she smiles
disappears when she is sad
I stare at the absence
I admire the presence
The monsoon comes predictably at certain parts of the world
It cleanses. It drowns.
What shall I do with regrets?
How about the the somnambulists?
They read a book while walking
stumbling over gnarled roots and dislocated stones
They are like somnambulists who fell asleep in a library
They are friends with different temperaments
Books are their common bond.
“Sit there and describe. And because the detail is divine, if you caress it into life, the world lost or ignored, the world ruined or devalued, comes to life. The little world you alone can bring into being, bit by broken bit, angles into the great world. It’s voice, your style. Or, call it what it is—your integrity.”
~ Patricia Hampl, The Art of the Wasted Day
note: I’m currently reading The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl. I just finished re-reading the Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
The polite separation is a complete break
Noticeable absence doesn’t restrict
Not a relief but a freedom
I can walk to the country
Practice my photography of landscapes
I have been wanting to learn aperture priority.
I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone
Leave me a message
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.
A pause from blind wine tasting
Then walking to an open amphitheater
Empty at the moment but with a promise
Live performance and an audience in two months
That’s how we look at time
Flowing, not always unbreakable, sometimes sidetracked
Returning back at the table, a new flight of wine
It’s harder to know the correct vintage and varietals
Noticing mixtures of tiny deviations
We are students of perfection eager
To extend the reach with misses and recoveries
Without showing true ignorance
We faintly know how to breakthrough
The boundaries and gain insights
To master the test of senses
A simple title of sommelier
Or it can be to master the erotic pantomime,
The courtship of the birds of paradise
We will all receive a slice of blueberry pie.
The radiance of the red bird is undeniable
The universe is still unfinished after 13.8 billion years
I have time for my season to grow corn
note: photo of me 5 years ago in Key West, Florida.
The clouds are mute, silent and still
I’m convalescing from superstitions
the force propels, distracts, destroys
notions of certainties
Finding three pennies while I’m walking
a trout for every cast
3 paragraphs to bring in the orbit
vignettes I place in a porcelain bowl.
They come unbidden like insomnia
and derail delicious daydreaming
I try to be consistent
We only fail when we try hard
innocent apprehension of work
like looking for remains of dinosaurs
We do not barge in with our eyes close
like dying with curiosity,
an idiosyncratic expression of pleasure.
note: I’m enjoying reading Moby Dick and Manhattan Beach. I also started reading The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl.It’s a busy day. I finished reading the other books.
photo: Napa River
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