Without Lifting A Finger

 

Last minute gifts. King John's Castle: The Tour. The Strand. Mr. Noodle: Green Curry & Chicken. *                                               

Homes, like Churches, can be carried with you invisibly. Anyway: I walked an old path this morning -- from 2nd St. to the Peninsula and back again -- but not as old as the path I've walked the last two or three weeks (summer is a time when the calendar is truly a fiction). No pics today: everything stood out but not in a take-my-pic way. Still, I wanted to put something up besides my babble. I worked in a somewhat random way (the text was lounging to my left, atop a few other choice texts) and grabbed up Borges' Selected Non-Fictions . Compounding that randomness I flipped through the book and found one of my old Hogarthian lines (something I miss from the old papyrus and vellum days): I chose what that line and its author seemed to be impressed with so many years ago for my blog entry. The non-fiction piece from Borges (should we even stoop to categories for his work) is titled "A Grandiose Manifesto from Breton" and the Borges' quote I squiggled follows on h

Not much new since I've gotten home. Besides home as home and return as return, I'll say: had to deal with a flat, bucked rather than peeted (because of the flat), ran into this #Selfie (due to bucking instead of peeting), read a little in Bernhard's Correction, and imagined (inspired by #Selfie) the portrait of Self as a collage of texts and photos. I know: my order is your disorder. *

We always make choices. I took the wrong way home yesterday. Traffic: stop-and-go all the way to Long Beach. I took a few pictures. *                     

I go to Michigan nearly every summer. Most of the photos are invisible (there's a theater on the underside of my eyelids and the admission is free). These photos (and some to follow) are the few that I took. Close to home (though you can never go home again):                         

I'm back from Michigan (my Genesis) and, after a 10 or so hour recovery (sleep is fantastic), I had to Peet and walk (the usual path). * I have a conscience and it said, Should I. Feels a little like invasion of privacy (is that possible in this case?). I have tried on various occasions to address this topic in my work, thus far to no avail: So far as I know, my poetry has saved no one (Auden: Poetry makes nothing happen). Anyway, he or she was covered, snoozing contentedly (seemingly), so I decided For instead of Against. ***