Sunday, January 01, 2006
new year ... of course ... i'm wishing much peace and happiness
and understanding and compassion to us all in general ... and
you in particular, dear reader ... may we each be more conscious
of the blessings that pour down over us every day ... even now
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
to catch up a bit with the fyp05
first line index
... i think much of this project is about
accumulation ... and that this is a fitting project for a life
like mine which is about accumulations ... of me and the varied
stuffs i call mine ... but with these pomes and their first lines
something else is going on ... that is not completely or doesn't
seem completely ... arbitrary as the alphabet ... i imagine standing
up for a complete reading of the index ... wondering what kind
of performance that might be ... still haven't dropped the notion
that it might be danced or sung or performed some way by many
voices ... singly doubly triply and grouped and all together ...
it would be an ultimate narcissism ... and lots of fun
Thursday, December 29, 2005
very good afternoon with mr. p. whitgrove of san francisco...
poet ... we wandered through the art institute and over to millenium
park ... & i meant what i said when i said it was a good thing
i forgot the camera because i was in the unmediated now and having
a real good time there in the art and the chilly wind walking
and talking ... like that
Once upon a time
and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along
the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met
a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
His father told him that story: his father looked
at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road
where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.
O, the wild rose blossoms
little green place.
that song. That was his song.
the green wothe botheth.
you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother
put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.
His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She
played on the piano the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He
Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and
mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.
Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with
the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with
the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou
every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.
The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different
father and mother. They were Eileen's father and mother. When
they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under
the table. His mother said:
O, Stephen will apologize.
-- O, if not, the eagles
will come and pull out his eyes.--
out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes.
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his
wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and
the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air
was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers
the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey
light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his
prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now
and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the throng of the
players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not
like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows
Rody Kickham was a decent
fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in
his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big
hands. He called the Friday pudding dog- in-the-blanket. And one
day be had asked:
-- What is
Stephen had answered:
89th birthday, mr. dedalus
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
a good goosey christmas time with
mom and meg and korie and luke and pat and mike and josh and beth
and rihab ... good gifting all around ... even the funniest moment
when mike and i realize we've given each other a cd we each already
have ... but neither has the one we got for the other ... so we
just swapped ... and now he's listening to neil young's prairie
& i've got the way mellow guitar/bass of metheny/haden
beyond the missouri sky
... i hope mike finds his choice
for me as much to his liking as i've found my choice for him ...
& beth is the latest family member to take a stab at getting us
to remember each other's important dates ... with her Murphy Family
Red Letter Days calendar ... complete with that wonderful photo
circa 1963 ('64?) with each of our younger selves ... it may be
the only picture of all twelve of us ... many thanks again for
all the stuff ... i can feel the love
Monday, December 26, 2005
from Thomas MertonThere must be a time of day
when the man who makes plans forgets his plans, and acts as if
he had no plans at all.
must be a time of day when the man who has to speak falls very
silent. And his mind forms no more propositions, and he
asks himself: Did they have a meaning?
There must be a time when the man of prayer goes to
pray as if it were the first time in his life he had ever prayed;
when the man of resolutions puts his resolutions aside as if they
had all been broken, and he learns a different wisdom: distinguishing
the sun from the moon, the stars from the darkness, the sea from
the dry land, and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill.
from No Man is an Island
by Thomas Merton. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, New York, 1955.
A note [from The Merton
Foundation] about inclusive language. Merton wrote before inclusive
language was common practice. In light of Merton's inclusive
position on so many issues and his many references to our essential
unity, we hope these reflections will be read from an inclusive
point of view.
t j b l
u g archive
finish your phrase