HALF OR QUITE ALOUD

The morning bird call has changed. Instead of the chirping and cawing, there are seagulls. I'm not sure what that bird call is. It is more musical than the crows, having a diminuendo that sounds dramatic and omnious. They don't fly around this building and make as much noise as did either the birds at Park Slope or Brewster.

Jeff Nunokawa had this to say this morning and it seemed worth sharing in a complete state.

4187. "We turn it into a dramatic monologue" (Robert Langbaum).

by Jeff Nunokawa on Monday, September 24, 2012 at 4:22am ·

The complete structure of traditional drama is a sign that it imitates or illustrates a complete idea; whereas the incomplete structure of the dramatic monologue is a sign that it projects a partial and problematic idea, a point of view. It is significant that when we misread old plays it is usually because we have lost sight of the ethos out of which they were written . . . Instead of subordinating the points of view of the characters to the general perspective and allowing the plot to determine our judgments, we allow the central character to have his way with us; we see the play through his point of view and as an episode in his career. We turn the complete drama into an incomplete one. We turn it into a dramatic monologue ("The Dramatic Element", The Poetry of Experience: The Dramatic Monologue in Modern Literary Tradition).

I wonder if other people talk to themselves as much as I do. And if they do, I wonder whether they recall as little of what they say as I recall of what I say. There I am walking down the street, wondering, half or quite aloud, why things are this way and not that way. I reassure myself and some stipulated (sight, unseen) friend that things are indeed this way and not that way, and that we have just what it takes (maybe just barely) to bear this way with some degree of dignity and consideration for others. (I try to avoid speaking or singing loudly, especially when I know that I am near people who are sleeping, loving, studying or praying.) While I do not remember a single specific word I have ever said during these bouts of talking-to-myself cure, much less any Old Story from which those words have found their fragmentary way, I do recall with a feeling of gratitude that I cannot say out loud, the tones of those teachers (poems, people, prose) whose classic instruction keeps us at our best play, even when the lines are blurry.

If we are able to find our way amongst the weights of the world, that is because of those central characters who have had their way through us; those central characters who taught us how to speak to the scared and the scarred; the central characters whose way directed us to the cross-road passages in the greatest dramas--the ones where the words that we speak to give others (visible and invisible) courage, merge with the words that we speak to receive some ourselves.

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Note. Here I am, walkin' down the street . . .  and I say to myself "I *got* this! " [anon].

I particularly related to "wondering why things are this way and not that way" ... and to requote our friends Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter, "... seems here like everything/lead up to this day/and it's just like any other day that's ever been..."

Work was better today as I was more enfranchised and at least told what some of my responsibilities would be. I still had a difficult time staying awake as I did not sleep well, being worried about Pammie again. That and not having the (for me) requisite down pillows and general comfort. I have already taken some sleeping medication in the hopes that I will get some good shut-eye tonight.

There's that Space Needle again.

My studio apartment is much more comfortable for me since I adjusted the feng shui to my liking. I suppose we all have different tolerances for our environment, but I pretty much never walk into one without wondering how I might improve or at least adjust it. Perhaps this will increase the likelihood that I will write and post. 

There is a Goodwill store on my route to and from work. I stopped by on the way home as I did need some other kitchen basics and I could use a couple more items of clothing. I scored in kitchen and housewares area, finding spring-loaded tongs (stop laughing, M), a decent knife, rubber spatulas in reasonable repair, a colander like pan that fits into the pans that came with the place thus eliminating the need for a vegetable steamer, a decent microplane for cheese, a pizza cutter, and I don't know what else. The utensils were only 69 cents! I also scored two nice bowls that can contain my necklaces and the cat food. 

Random building near my building, catching some sunset.

And I bought a plaid Woolrich shirt. Oh God. I'm going crunchy. 

At lunch I had time to revisit L. P. Smith and I needs must share him with you again (still from Unforgotten Years:

I detect in myself a tendency to sentimentalize over these early years of my existence. It is not that I wish to recall my youth. It is rather than I feel a kind of impatient pity for that half-baked young fool of an American boy about whom I have been writing. no, I have no regrets for youth. Gladly would I go on living at my present age, and with my present interests, for uncounted years. To become young again would seem to me an appalling prospect. Youth is a kind of delirium, which can only be cured, if it is ever cured at all, by years of painful treatment.