Friday, November 22, 2013


Indeed, I must admit to tipsiness. 'Twas the meeting of a reduced version of the Kermit Place Readers discussing the second half of the second volume of Proust. There were only four of us instead of the usual seven. We had a most terrific time and, of course, as is our wont, drank some wine. But we had a lovely time reading passages aloud and comparing texts as we did not all read out of the same translation. Proust is, indeed, a lifetime undertaking and utterly worth a long time of study. Not something you read for narrative, but a different kind of narrative experience altogether.

On a more personal front, still fighting the dementors.

Emmylou in excelsis.

Yes, and on top of that had a profound and sad discussion with my 87-year old mother. Well, yes it was about aging, and vulnerability, and pain, and perceptions, and needs, and accepting or rejecting the reality of one's particular state. Yes, that and more. And that will have to be enough for now. I need to … yes … sleep.

The Nothing of Roselight

Death comes, and what we thought
we needed loses importance.

The living shiver, focused
on a muscular dark hand,
rather than the glowing cup it holds
or the toast being proposed.

In that same way love enters
your life, and the I, the ego
a corrupt, self-absorbed king,
dies during the night.

Let him go.
Breathe the cold new air, 
the nothing of rose light.
— Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks

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