This
Journal

October
1999

A line stumbles through (doesn't it) this wallow of contradictions where, once you're in it, the hard-headed ministers agree you're all the worse for having been there. So stand still if you think you can. Then begin again where the moist edges of possibility lean up cautiously against everything you ever and only wanted. We still might be able to make a go of it. Yes, you called us over here for a reason.

Then our day in the sun, our bright shining minute or two, drops into some other guy's pocket and he walks off like a prince of the lower things. Call him back. Call him Archduke Ferdinand come unglued just before the anarchist convention. That day was done before it began. If you're lucky he will turn and toss a bit back, but it's still a sham, a poor thing we'd be better off without. So let's go.

Tomorrow holds on tighter. Everything will be more carefully planned. We'll squint our hopefulness into gray faces; they haven't recovered from the other night, but they'll be okay by afternoon. And if you speak slowly they will forgive your congestion and that sad yellow kimino. We will have had enough time to have thought it over. Yes, we will continue through this muddy spot because we can see that the distance is equal to the time, all things being the same. One leaps out for a tiny improvisation, a solidarity waltz, then falls back in step. We have, you see, more ground to cover before dusk.

It was an excuse for not having thought enough of ourselves. They'll note our wretched condition and have some pity, which is not always such a bad thing. We were just trying to shake something lose, a dead fly from the web or an old apple from this lower branch. Something had been needing to fall; we just couldn't decide what until this moment when you arrived all flattered and spattered by something unmentionable. You are a mess, but we will forgive you if you promise to stand up straight and speak distinctly of your travail.

Well, yes, for sure, this does not belong here, of all places, where you come for clarity and compassion. What is this anyway? A poem? What are you thinking, you may want to know. And this is it, the thought, unvarnished and unrehearsed, just present. Today was a day without facts just because. We haven't seen this in a long time. No apologies. It had a giggle running through it. Did you hear?

The attitude that nature is chaotic and that the artist puts order into it is a very absurd point of view, I think. All that we can hope for is to put some order into ourselves.
Willem de Kooning