Awake:


        Blanketed in those thoughts which take us from solitude without offering us company.


          


















































             My specific gravity:

                that "you alone did seem to me that which one always seeks."





















































Frightened by a revelation:


it's only a memory that I can love completely.





















































In the Church of Silence.


I wonder if, in the end, love, like Christ, must slump in exhaustion.


(The sudden doubling of significance in the painting of Franisco de Zurbanan—a transcendental symbolism which is altogether absent in his son-in-law's rendition of that same scene. But we can complicate it further: Christ was the first deity to doubt: “My God, why have you forsaken me?”)

















































   There are moments when everything seems foreign. Colors don't match the calendar, temperatures all too often reflect people. The light is too white, the sun too impersonal.


Sunny days are lonely.






















































             The city through the branches:                    

                                                                                       

    a tableau in undulating fonts.




















































        Magic is a matter of significance:

        a world in which everything participates in a significant context.

        But Magic, like Art, is an action:

        action from a distance.


    Today, I find more things that are disappearing.





















































Another perfect day.


Writer's block.
























































    Would that I could adopt a calendar for this loss—a burial site to visit annually—in an effort to abstract through time that which threatens to outlast me.


























































    We are not the same person under cloudless skies that we are baptized beneath a heavy mist: Without exception I align myself with a moody world, my soundtrack shifted to an appropriate chord of Satie or Gorecki—although even here we can stop to ponder at how the specter of the artists should manage to magick their works into distinctly new compositions, some manifest musical transpositions of low hanging clouds in November or the watery sky of mid-August. In this way is every waking a communion. Thusly given over to myself, do I happen upon the image of myself framed in the window of this cafe, where the sight of a city tram parting the fog takes on the significance of Moses before the sea, or, if the world remains distractingly commonplace, I discover instead that I have retreated into the dark of the shop. A morning of Olympian detachment.


































































                                               Startled by a glimpse of my passing reflection: Why did I look so worried?



























































            And how, not loving God, should I have come to devout such tears to him?



























































An uncanny demarcation:

           the atmosphere suddenly occupied

—not by something new but by that which it already was, manifestly—

    a pulsating glow,

                                    the last grasping breaths of some prehistoric god, animating that unseen world between this one and the next.



























































   The city, quiet from the

     bay,

   dressed, like home, in distances

                                           — and vagaries


























































An affected Hierophant: a connoisseur of Phantoms:


Moved to longing by the acoustics of the season's deepening shadows.































































Haunted:



Borne an impossible distance by a sleep which, having failed to supply the desired nepenthe, ferried me, like Virgil, across the dark waters of remembered loss to land, repentant, at her shore.


A dream.

























































            The clouds hang like willows; I turn to the sea,

    like Sappho.














































































            In winter, I feel subterranean; a blanket of near-constant mist condenses into a soporific dripping outside my window.


































































    “Among intelligent and genuinely serious workers there is a certain aversion for those who make

     literature out of the subject they are engaged on, those who use it for self-display.” (Proust)


Or, Baxendall: Warning signs of fabulation: narrative elegance, particularly of closure, interestingness in general, presence of dialogue.


                And in Barthes, a distrust of language altogether: that the sentence completes,

                grammar structures us—the self excommunicated.



                                                                                                 How to write?




















































Overwhelmed by a sudden anxiety: that I was experiencing a memory;


That this moment—the lingering tail of steam from her forgotten tea, the burning strands of a foreign winter sun painting the far wall a deep dreamy orange, the pen floating nervously between my fingers, and the entirety of her being contained in that most genuine, life-giving laugh which I would forever mark as distinctly, wholly her—had combined to announce to me the pang of a future loss so overwhelming that in this moment everything ceased to be, presently, and became instead markers of that which I was sure to miss.


       Proust: "She was not yet dead, but I was already alone."






















































The source of my insomnia:


    that I have been too liberal with my eraser. This méconnaissance: that the horizon is limiting.






























































    Janus, whose eyes divide divine attention between past and future, paints for us the very visage of the everyday.


    Meanwhile, Proust, that consummate poet of the everyday, who so often cried beneath the tempering pressure of aesthetic experience—the blue valleys of a playful summer sea along the coast of Normandy, or the Italian landscape stretched out below the crests of the French Alps, the very manifestation of the hand of some old master—gifts the deity an unexpected voice:


“Above all, why do you insist so strenuously on enjoying the present, weeping when you cannot manage to do so? Man of imagination, you can enjoy things only in nostalgia or in anticipation: in other words, you can enjoy only the past or future.”


    Thus does Proust reinvest in an aesthetics of reclaiming lost time.




















































        Time has worked tirelessly,

        and without the slightest effort, to land you

    on shifting shores distant—

        a mere silhouette tucked shyly amid

        significant shadows;

                                        merely dreams.

        But against the portrait of your memory,

        well-worn and threadbare

        as the edge of the wedding dress

        which fine fingered caresses have polished thin

        amid the course of that war

        between flattering fantasy

        and resigned realities—

        against cherished memory, everyday life raises its

standard

        and wages a steady assault.



















































Diderot:

    “One should inscribe over the door of one’s studio: here the unfortunate will find eyes that will weep for them.”

         

My misgiving:

    that i should be satisfied at merely weeping.

                                    Does emotional affect beget action?





















































Schelling:

    “the beginning is the negation of that which begins with it'


And, a useful misinterpretation of Dewey: Beginnings only reveal themselves in endings.


Retrospectively, I write this love.

    (And yet, even its possibility has been thrown ahead of me...)





What could better describe love than the most general vertigo?



































































The impossibility of communion: that everything vibrates at its edges.


Barthes:

        Language desires nothing more and nothing else than to touch the beloved’s body

    —and the world in which it exists.



Midnight in June. Re-potting some perennials. The world hums.

































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     //  Writings and considerations made during my time in Finland. Punctuated by feelings of displacement, it seems that I could not but focus on the light, the seasons, and my everyday life—or lack thereof.