40 degrees today, too muggy and hot to do anything productive, many dreams. night is when iron sinks into the earth to tighten and ripple the strings of the soul to string a tension among the shadows, and walking to give it flight--the leather of sandles worn through, lit minarets above. then, onwards, and a [red dawn]. i am a part of all that i have met, tennyson, and such extreme sensitivity. "blue july, bright july, i love thee like an eastern bride", wa manyyu'ammar yaliqa fi nafsihi / ma yatamannaahu li a'daa'ihi...among other more intense faceoffs...
a parisian bohemian, a silent pair of eyes. living alone now, for the first time in my life. mirrors so clear. aeneid bore his father through the burning city, black ships, so many centuries to end in the dust in the corners of our eyes.
--
me: ...what are we doing, walking in the middle of the street, facing oncoming traffic?
t: proving our manhood.
me: oh, right.
--
mein hut, der hat drei ecken / drei ecken hat mein hut / und het er nicht drei ecken / so wer er nicht mein hut
--
words no longer repel me, if they are the right words. surrounded by thoughts, ideas for art, people.
on the last pages of my 388pg notebook. mostly repetition distilled.
visit [baghdad burning] again, if it has been a while, and remember some of the things you have forgotten.
and then our exile
Monday, July 11, 2005 at 1:53 p.m.
basit said...
"wa manyyu'ammar...a'daa'ihi" - 'and one who lives long finds in his own self / what he has come to expect from his enemies', poetry from imam ash-shaafi'i.
"mein hut...mein hut" - my hat, it has three corners / three corners has my hat / and had it not three corners / it would not be my hat. a profound rhyme.
~
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