51/80: Unremembered
Dec. 1st, 2024 10:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphA few hours after I woke up today I realized it was Sunday again, so I wouldn't have to go to the mailbox. I am glad for this being Sunday and the mailbox thus certainly remaining empty, because I am very short of energy to go for such a long walk. Instead at some point I will make a shorter walk to the trash cans, and get rid of the contents of my kitchen waste basket. It is about to overflow. Making more space in it is worth that much exertion.
And then I will make a box of macaroni and cheese. I mean the ingredients come from a box and I make it and then eat it, from a bowl, not the box. Why is language so awkward? Conveying information is much more difficult than it probably needs to be. But then we are communicating in a physical world, which gives every evidence of being utterly impractical. Even preposterous. I could certainly (and soon undoubtedly will) do without its shenanigans.
Something happened earlier and I've forgotten it. I've forgotten how much earlier. Might have ben this morning might have been this week might have been this life. More and more gets forgotten, and it may have nothing to do with me but it's me that forgets. It might also be me forgotten. I sleep too much. To little. I want to go to sleep now. Whenever this is.
Sunday Verse
By Anne Sexton
Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush
pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against
his starving bloated stomach,
I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off
for a medical experiment
and his claws wept.
I know that much.
I know that it is all
a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching
comes love
like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands
before the abandonment of the city,
out of the bars and shops,
a thin file of ants.
I've been abandoned out here
under the dry stars
with no shoes, no belt
and I've called Rescue Inc. -
that old-fashioned hot line -
no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them,
my own nostrils, shoulders, breasts,
navel, stomach, mound, kneebone, ankle,
touch them.
It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York City
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.
And then I will make a box of macaroni and cheese. I mean the ingredients come from a box and I make it and then eat it, from a bowl, not the box. Why is language so awkward? Conveying information is much more difficult than it probably needs to be. But then we are communicating in a physical world, which gives every evidence of being utterly impractical. Even preposterous. I could certainly (and soon undoubtedly will) do without its shenanigans.
Something happened earlier and I've forgotten it. I've forgotten how much earlier. Might have ben this morning might have been this week might have been this life. More and more gets forgotten, and it may have nothing to do with me but it's me that forgets. It might also be me forgotten. I sleep too much. To little. I want to go to sleep now. Whenever this is.
Sunday Verse
The Fury of Abandonment
By Anne Sexton
Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush
pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against
his starving bloated stomach,
I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off
for a medical experiment
and his claws wept.
I know that much.
I know that it is all
a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching
comes love
like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands
before the abandonment of the city,
out of the bars and shops,
a thin file of ants.
I've been abandoned out here
under the dry stars
with no shoes, no belt
and I've called Rescue Inc. -
that old-fashioned hot line -
no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them,
my own nostrils, shoulders, breasts,
navel, stomach, mound, kneebone, ankle,
touch them.
It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York City
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.
