If life was a series of curated walks, like the books about walks by Sebald, Cotner-Fitch, Anderse*n, Bryson: *[o?]: Etc. I guess those are all men, though what men are, as a category, doesn't seem right to say. I think of plants, for example, which can be underwater, carnivorous, ash-producing or divine. The lotus that splits into a thousand petals at the tip of the spine: pink, bitter orange and gold. Imagine spending the night in the Rubin museum. Imagine spending the night in the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. Deities step out of the paintings and lie over your body like a thin piece of silk from the market.
The silk is yellow, the bright lemon yellow of a blouse in April or May, the hottest and driest part of the year. What is a year? Years are like men. Variable.
Yesterday, I took the 13, 439th walk of my life, along a path that went through the forest from the library, my arms full of books, late already for a union meeting. Then stopped. Backed up. Pretended that Douglas Martin was in the distance and that I was trying to catch up with him. "Douglas! Wait up. What's that? Can't hear you." As if to pretend I was not alone on a path in a forest with the density of an eyeball. A dark blue eyeball filled with trees: snapping branches and a thick crystalline snow and boot-prints veering off the path into the thick of it all. I lost my nerve three times, then finally gave up and went back to the library to ask for a ride. The woods felt animate, full of vibrant and massive forms of life. Perhaps I have become sensitive to the trees themselves, the vertical and inverted surges of xylem and phloem in the middle: the red tube going up, the blue tube going down -- like a human arm's diagram of oxygenated blood flow and retrieval.
Today, 12 years ago, I went into labor at the Twin Hands Paperie in Boulder and within 12 hours, the following morning, I had given birth to a son -- who is imminently (now) 12. So perhaps this is why I am awake at 2 a.m. at the edge of the forest on the Eastern Seaboard. This is possibly not a seaboard. I think of the U.S. tilting up a bit then down once you get past Ohio, like a paper plate at the end of a picnic. That is my tectonic vision.
Time to return to sleep and dream. My blog is about to pass 250, 000 hits -- at some point today it will happen, and so I thought I'd say that. I thought it did that a couple of weeks ago but I was looking at the wrong chart. Feels sparkly. Thank you for reading my blog, which was sometimes a parenting/dog-rearing manual without instruction sets.
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Next on the blog, I'd like to incubate a new book, which is like saying that I am about to go on a pilgrimage: recorded here as the document of all the dismembered parts -- as per the goddess Parvati, whose "parts" were flung to the ten directions by her father, who was in a rage. To walk is to make her whole. Vulture Peak, for example, corresponds (I think) to her nose. Today I am giving a talk on experimental form as a mode of ecstatic pilgrimage, so we'll see how that goes. I am giving a workshop on refraction -- vectors of light -- in the poetry of Laura Mullen, Erin Moure and Asher Ghaffar, so we'll see how that goes. I will attempt to walk, in a non-recursive fashion, from point A to point B without deviation. That will be my minor goal.