One of my grandmothers sang, the other had a lovely laugh, but I don't know if either of them danced. When she was young, my mother was a jitterbug queen. And she once declaimed that Cesar Romero tried to pick her up in LA, when she was 18 or so. Also, some rich guy wanted her to marry him, live in a house in Florida by herself, and be his wife in name only.

Unborn memories of what might have been. It's 3 am; the blue moon's light tilts through the blinds. One dreaming infant eye and two curled fingers are covered in shadow.

Slow World

Fog, earth's breath, a
Fevered exhaust
Condensed in the
Chill of moon's iced
Eye, whispering
The sun to rise.

Translation is the art of failure.
— Umberto Eco

Every transmittal is a failure in some obvious sense, if perfect transcription is the measure. But a translation into another's personal language resulting from their own reading, as a new rendering of material given, is what? Art's journey? The stream I wade through is one of many possible. The stream I present in words or any other transmissible form is one that others can wade through, float upon, drown within, or sink beneath, as they are so inclined.

Such presentation is not failure; it is the gift of an empty box of a particular size and shape of my design into which the recipient may place just what they wished for. Call it a box made of water wrapped in loose ribbons made of words.

Why no comments, you ask?

Because interesting things happen to me and perhaps to you when thoughts are invited to find their own way. Because an article recently reminded me of The Slow Movement. Because if I write for others I too easily forget to write for myself. Because it fits how I want to be in the world at this moment.

First Post

Today is as good a day as any to do something new,
like start a blog. So.

Here's a poem I wrote a couple weeks ago.
It's about an imaginary snapshot.

The slow,
 
fluttering descent of autumn-ripened maple 
leaves keep pace with him here, but he

has yet to notice. Their remembered green
and budding still quicken his eye, and his

neck remains just limber enough for a
head to be turned past- and future-wise a

while longer. It's all beyond him in that
moment. For me now, he and his leaves 

are at rest in a furling forever. This
is what memory wishes. This is what

wishes hold.