Ah anyway, so I'm of sound mind now, certainly a good thing. But in the spirit of Kitty-Levin, I try to make sense of this series of page hits, two days in a row:
Proust's DoubleThere are two others - because the last two days it's 8 page hits at a time - but I don't know what they are because the stat log has room for only so many, and someone else - several times a day, has been hitting on the "starved gnat" post from last September.
(a.m.) Outside the windows grizzled land and pall [ed. note: yeah, this afternoon too]
So little to report, today, dearests, and I'm not feeling very inspired or poetic, though I did read several short essays of the poet Ted Hughes, in his volume Winter Pollen. Which I really enjoyed reading, and felt very comforted by, as a poetic love letter writer who feels anxiety sometimes over writers block, and he offers such sage, gentle guidance from his own experience. How writing a poem (for him) is like hunting small animals, which he used to do as a child, or like going fishing, trying to glimpse let alone catch the shapes that flicker past underneath the water. In this context too, in startling parallel, I think of his poor son Nicholas, who as a grown man was a research biologist in Alaska, studying the movements of grayling fish (they're salmonlike, I believe). He took his own life a couple of years ago, unfortunately. I was very struck and moved by what I learned of him, the fact of him, his studies, his love of nature, of going out onto rivers and closely observing the movements of fish - like his father, who was able to take it a step further, metaphorically. I'm tired now, and it doesn't feel like my story of theirs to tell, don't wish to appropriate it, and yet in the back of my mind I've always wanted to write something about it. A couple of years ago, as an exercise in a writing class, I took a large journal page and jotted down, in a lot of balloons, connected with lines, thoughts, leaping associations, quotes, the "Pike" poem of Ted Hughes, a description of Nicholas' research. I went quite far afield on that sheet, with many other tangential thoughts as they came up. And here that page sits - looking quite official, almost like an organic organizational chart - but I've never felt that I could do anything with it somehow, as though the sheet itself sufficed. Which it doesn't, but there is a part of me that resists being the one to put it together in some formal fashion. I don't know why it feels so opportunistic to me - just not wishing to tread on others' lives, I suppose. There is a lot of palpable pain there. They're both dead and gone (Ted Hughes, who died of cancer, predeceased his son) and yet - they seem very immediate to me.
Sorry, darling, I'm just babbling here a bit, which I don't really like to do in my blog (yeah, I'm sure that shows).
What I'd really like is to be able to shut off my mind for a while, just lie in your arms in peace, hear about you for a change - learn about you. Maybe one day, or not, who knows.
It's getting late where you are. I imagine that you're in bed, or getting ready for bed. Or - who knows - perhaps you work late into the night, or overnight even. I have no idea. But whatever time it is that you go to bed, even though I'm not there, I'm kissing you goodnight, and making sure you have enough covers and that the shades are drawn and the room is nice and dark. Good night, darling. Sleep well.