Saturday, January 7, 2012

Hello darling, just a quick post for tonight, I try to imagine where you are, and imagine something having to do with a baptism for a new Catholic baby, perhaps there's a compelling family event, I can only imagine, with inlaws, new family members, you're only just starting to know. I'm here, frankly not in the best mood - my mood's gone south. Stopped by the supermarket for the umpteenth time this week (only once a day, I'm not *that* bad) - to of course, no avail. Plus, overnight in my wee-hour wakefulness, I'd concocted what seemed (in my groggy state) a semi-plausible scenario where I might ask the woman in produce if she remembers the encounter (when she was bagger, and set us straight as to why the market was so crowded), and perhaps even - now these are my imaginings! - her playing cupid - if I gave her my tiny envelope with the faux-E.D. stamp (I like that touch myself, I find it magical) - and if he comes into the market so often that she's like "yeah he's in here all the time" - I might ask her to give the tiny envelope to him.

Darling - one would suppose - after all this crazy imagineering in my daily life - that I might have a novel in me - but I don't - these machinations are it.

But I can easily picture - if I should ask her at all - her face darkening, glowering, becoming suspicious - and then where am I?

So completely ridiculous, don't I know it. In my imaginings I picture asking the produce lady - you won't give it to the wrong guy will you - by accident? Because even now, days later, what he looks like exactly, is fading from my memory.

I walked down & up Warren Street this afternoon and at one point across the street was a bearded gentleman, darkhaired --- but heavierset, not the guy.

Darling - why am I bothering you with all this?

I'm just feeling so frustrated on so many levels, I can hardly even say. Such as at lunch --- D & I sat down to plates of warmed drumsticks, alongside scoops of taboulleh salad & couscous salad. And on PBS was a breathless (but okay) documentary about some kind of "landscape of the mind" - I didn't quite catch the location, American Southwest someplace -- buildings & dwellings that had been sited, miles apart, according to the trajectories of the risings & settings of the sun... and other ones, along other distinct lines... of the moon. Except that these were prehistoric, before the advent of all sorts of things -- such as blueprints, planning, and recording mapped visions on paper... And yet here they were, these artifacts, astronomically precise, built in accordance to a shared otherwise unrecorded but fervently held shared vision of its creators. Because, at the time of its construction, the composition formed on the vast landscape could only be beheld in the mind - before the advent of airplanes, and of aerial views.

I think of all the incredible miraculous creations & wonderments that have been built - such as this one, which is miraculous, but not (as far as I know) so famous, not one of the "Seven Wonders of the World"

and here we are in supposedly the greatest nation on earth
(and I personally) in one of the most amazingly beautiful regions God could ever have imagined, painted and bestowed upon us
and the best we can do --- 20/early 21st century hominids - is to pave tens of thousands of acres over in the name of a bunch of, one bunker here, another there, big box stores?

When there is the Chartres Cathedral, for example? - exquisite, complex construction, achieved with far simpler technology, & no bulldozing machinery -
and other such structures built according to perceived & imagined connections & logics?

So I don't want to hear/read about 'singularity'
the machine-mind is here already - don't some of us who should know better - get it already?

but hey, I'm not of the left-brain world spreading dominating sort
I'm the other one - and not because I'm female
who notices - oh I don't know what I notice

that I should go downstairs and join
an evening already in progress

oh - I'll be okay darling -
you too - have a wonderful evening

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