Philosophy and practice of the everyday

If we’re all wrong about everything, the life so short and the craft so long to learn, the assay so hard, so sharp the conquering, the dreadful joy that passes so quick and then being left alone again, what I mean is love astonishes my feeling with its wonderful working so ardently so painfully that when I’m thinking about such certainty I don’t know like the earth if I’m floating or sinking.

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I don’t know why being left alone is a bruise when if I’m Forced to Play the part in a conversation of listening to what is said the klaxon in my brain which only I can hear (have you your own klaxon?) goes off and I just want it to end so I can be left alone again and trace round the edges of the bruise with unthinking fingers.

I keep reading about how poetry does not allow for neutrality and how there is no choice but to protest against this human brutality but there’s so much of it, we swim in heinous acts perpetrated against the relatively innocent, and I am so selfish, so self-absorbed, and my protesting muscles are currently all farmed out to my diaphragm, their exacting principal, which labors with their help to keep the air coming in and coming out, when all forces seem to come together to pin me to the floor and make it the same as the ceiling.

I did not mention that there is a blizzard and I am rendered a homesteader and the dog is restless and the children are embedded in a cinematic experience that tests the boundaries of homage to the Greek gods. To call it kitsch is to falsely summon Walter Benjamin and stuff his suitcase with unlaundered cartel money.

On a personal level, I don’t know what being more tired might feel like, and somewhere in a dark corner for the locating of which thankfully there is no map all of my squanderings have drifted and gathered and this fierce wind will come and scatter them soon.