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FiftyFive ~ # 33
I like getting sent things and email is a great addition to the post. All kinds of things drop onto my mat and in my inboxes (for I am greedy and have more than one). And this was sent to me recently and isn't it wonderful and it is a textual intervention on the Montage track, called, strangely enough, My Love Has Green Lips - and indeed all of this fits with the idea of montage, does it not. And I wish I had it framed in my study and I may yet do that, or simply print it out and stick up with a piece of bluetac (is that how you spell it - and does it really matter, the word I used says what it implies, does it not). I am happy to report that the top of my thumb, which I cut off while slicing an orange, has grown back on. And that is another remarkable part of life, too. How we repair and grow whole after disappointment (see Overtime) though, of course, not all of us can or do - fragile guitar/guide less car. But this poem reminds me that life has many twists and turns and nooks and crannies and that the words of others are just as legitimate as our own and hearing them and seeing them written down is surely one of the great privileges in the world. The words of others that were worth writing or saying or dreaming, no less legitimate for their articulacy (or not). And I was thinking recently, why does it take tragedy for us to sit up and notice? Haiti was a disaster before the earthquake, steeped in poverty and deprivation and yet sitting in the shadow of one of the richest places that ever existed. But I guess its human nature, for we can't bandage all the thumbs in the world - though we can think about them as our own thumb repairs itself. And I have and I do and have done small things, though never enough I fear. Welcome to my Friday morning, it rained all night, last night, and the fecund spring is beginning its push. Everything is late in the garden this year - after the snow. But I fancy there will be stirrings underground and soon the crocuses will be followed by tulips and daffodils and then we will be reborn. A song about a fast car and escaping and bandaging a thumb follows next, and A. and I love this and since she flies off to Finland tomorrow its posted for her:
I like getting sent things and email is a great addition to the post. All kinds of things drop onto my mat and in my inboxes (for I am greedy and have more than one). And this was sent to me recently and isn't it wonderful and it is a textual intervention on the Montage track, called, strangely enough, My Love Has Green Lips - and indeed all of this fits with the idea of montage, does it not. And I wish I had it framed in my study and I may yet do that, or simply print it out and stick up with a piece of bluetac (is that how you spell it - and does it really matter, the word I used says what it implies, does it not). I am happy to report that the top of my thumb, which I cut off while slicing an orange, has grown back on. And that is another remarkable part of life, too. How we repair and grow whole after disappointment (see Overtime) though, of course, not all of us can or do - fragile guitar/guide less car. But this poem reminds me that life has many twists and turns and nooks and crannies and that the words of others are just as legitimate as our own and hearing them and seeing them written down is surely one of the great privileges in the world. The words of others that were worth writing or saying or dreaming, no less legitimate for their articulacy (or not). And I was thinking recently, why does it take tragedy for us to sit up and notice? Haiti was a disaster before the earthquake, steeped in poverty and deprivation and yet sitting in the shadow of one of the richest places that ever existed. But I guess its human nature, for we can't bandage all the thumbs in the world - though we can think about them as our own thumb repairs itself. And I have and I do and have done small things, though never enough I fear. Welcome to my Friday morning, it rained all night, last night, and the fecund spring is beginning its push. Everything is late in the garden this year - after the snow. But I fancy there will be stirrings underground and soon the crocuses will be followed by tulips and daffodils and then we will be reborn. A song about a fast car and escaping and bandaging a thumb follows next, and A. and I love this and since she flies off to Finland tomorrow its posted for her:
