rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Nine, Day Two Hundred Forty-Seven

The sameness of these days and their dissatisfactions is not unlike the samenesses of lost decades when I hoped for changes that would wake the world my thoughts desired and make of my desires real scents, real sounds, real flavors, reflections of light revealing forms sprung forth as manifest dreams, and all so intense that they would quiver my very skin like spray from waves ridden shoreward where revelations awaited. But that was a time with a future, and this is a time with a past, unfulfilled and fading. What is same is remarkably same, but for the absence of that vain hope.

Perhaps there are moments when stray thoughts wonder if this had changed, or that, would there have been some other outcome. I think perhaps a more glamourous outcome, or a more luxurious one, or more comfortable in its accoutrements, and to be sure perhaps an outcome worse than this, at least materially, but in essence sameness is always same, and sameness I now believe is the essence. Stripped of superficialities, this is where one is and where one always was. I still think, however, that I could have said more about it, or said what I did say better, and that might have brought at least more satisfaction. But maybe even that is a delusion. I don't expect to learn, one way or the other. But I'm pretty sure I'll forget.

Sunday Verse

Anatomy of Monotony

by Wallace Stevens


                       I.

If from the earth we came, it was an earth
That bore us as a part of all the things
It breeds and that was lewder than it is.
Our nature is her nature. Hence it comes,
Since by our nature we grow old, earth grows
The same. We parallel the mother’s death. 
She walks an autumn ampler than the wind
Cries up for us and colder than the frost
Pricks in our spirits at the summer's end,
And over the bare spaces of our skies
She sees a barer sky that does not bend.


                        II.

The body walks forth naked in the sun
And, out of tenderness or grief, the sun
Gives out comfort, so that other bodies come,
Twinning our phantasy and our device,
And apt in versatile motion, touch and sound
To make the body covetous in desire
Of the still finer, more implacable chords.
So be it. Yet the spaciousness and light
In which the body walks and is deceived,
Falls from that fatal and that barer sky,
And this the spirit sees and is aggrieved.