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far niente

Writing the obituary of my dreams.

Updated: 2018-03-06T05:04:51.198-05:00




It has been a long time since I've looked at the stars. I'm looking up and there are more now than there were before.



do some dreaming. even if you cannot sleep.



Florists send the best apologies. Orphans bring the best winter squash.



This Is How It Is--Ruth Stone

I look at the gene bank,
examples by the millions,
and they won't do.
On this planet, for me,
there was only one impetuous specimen.
How angry I become
when I walk through the corridors of my dreams.
On all the beaches of the living world,
the shadows of where you were
are washed away by the tides.
Only in my skull,
night after night,
I wrestle with your obstinate ghost.
But even that is better
than this three-dimensional life
that is so boring without you.

Ruth Stone, is this ancient saint of a woman. in her nineties now I bet. blind. lost her sights decades ago. decades before that, her husband, the father of her young children killed himself. almost all her poetry is for him. or for her kids about their dad.

Fly-fishing for girls: expectations


Fly-fishing for girls: expectations
The 'flies' in fly-fishing are not reel.

I imagine, regular fishing--the expected
piercing of an animal smaller than the one you wish
to hook dangling from a line,
bait soaking in the water long enough to elicit a bite,
the bite that snags the barbed-hook,
giving a quick puncture, a tear in the lip,
and, perhaps, a slight snack swallowed
by the large animal
before being dragged
against the current
and into the air.

"It's not like that, Hun."

securing a bait-fly to a barbed hook:
the silky wings, now crunchy in death and dehydration,
turn to falling confetti
towards the bottom of the boat
the very moment pinched by fingers
to lift him from the container;
his tiny body shreds
as the tip of the hook begins to pierce the abdomen,
and long before it ever reaches the thorax,
the shape is mangled
and becomes thick goo between the angler's fingers.

"No, Babe, we 'tie flies.'"

tying knots in line
in ways clever enough to create loops
in which to place a fly,
and pull with such skill, ever so slightly,
to fasten that fly to the end of the line.
Instead, his fly-head is decapitated as the line cinches tight.

"Aw Darlin', there ain't no flies in fly-fishing!"

My Angler,
he hooks
pompoms, feathers and fuzzy things
in the line
with knots and bows
only to look like flies.

The fish are impressed.

journal updates: Summer 2010.


Recent updates to my hand-written journal contain only this: scraps of papers, notes, post-its, business cards, wristbands, leaves. The only written words are those enough to identify the objects, the places they were collected, cryptic explanation, and the names of the people I was with. All dates are approximate.



maybe you're one of those people with a little hole in your heart, and it has always been there. and your whole life you search. and then one day, when you die, they say: "[ ] had a hole in his heart his whole life. But no one loved love like he did. Isn't it ironic?"

and of course, it won't be ironic at all.

Young animal


Young animal,
you are born naked
for want of man.



I believe that 'believe' is a word that can be used to express whatever it is that is important to you.

I believe in writing credos in pencil.

Core Roots


I have maintained the same core group of friends since sophomore year of high school. Nine years later, I'm interested in growing without them. It's not that they are all that bad, rather, I'm not as much like them as maybe I once was. I've changed, I've grown, and I want to see the people around me also change and grow for the better. Endlessly. This group is static.

As a houseplant grows for years in the same container in which it was born, the roots reach the edge of the plastic confines, turn in on themselves, and begin to form a mass, a 'root ball.' Overtime, the root ball begins to strangle itself, chokes and kills the plant itself.

The group has become a root ball, a clusterfuck of incest and lies, heartbreak and cancer, known secrets and public shames. We know everything about each other; we can predict each others' emotions and goals, successes and failures. The group has become an entity in and of itself . Judging, engorging, lusting, hating, shaming, suspecting, cheating, enabling. It's choking itself. We're choking each other.

I can watch it all happening as if I were in the greenhouse starring into the pot. I'm not so embedded that I cannot take a blade and cut away the roots that are mine, transplant and move on. And so I will.



Story starts.. ideas in my head, inspired by my day.

-It's almost perfectly natural that the young funeral director would step outside the front door of the funeral home to fetch the morning's news at the exact moment the fire trucks and ambulances, all lights and sound, raced north past her on Main St.

"The first time I stopped by, I met another woman here..."
"Yes, a woman about my age?"
"Yes, she was lovely."
"Ah, yes, that'd be Jane. A wonderful woman. I was good friends with her husband. He died, oh, 5, 6 years ago now... we've been taking care of her ever since."

reminders (to live) from PostSecret



sensation & season


As the seasons begin to make their change, is it noticed first in the light or in the air?

I am one to see it first in the air. Perhaps one day, I will feel the change in the light.

How to get back


I find myself wondering how one gets one self to somewhere else."unchopping a tree" -MerwinStart with the leaves, the small twigs, and the nests that have been shaken, ripped, or broken off by the fall; these must be gathered and attached once again to their respective places. It is not arduous work, unless major limbs have been smashed or mutilated. If the fall was carefully and correctly planned, the chances of anything of the kind happening will have been reduced. Again, much depends upon the size, age, shape, and species of the tree. Still, you will be lucky if you can get through this stages without having to use machinery. Even in the best of circumstances it is a labor that will make you wish often that you had won the favor of the universe of ants, the empire of mice, or at least a local tribe of squirrels, and could enlist their labors and their talents. But no, they leave you to it. They have learned, with time. This is men's work.It goes without saying that if the tree was hollow in whole or in part, and contained old nests of bird or mammal or insect, or hoards of nuts or such structures as wasps or bees build for their survival, the contents will have to repaired where necessary, and reassembled, insofar as possible, in their original order, including the shells of nuts already opened. With spider's webs you must simply do the best you can. We do not have the spider's weaving equipment, nor any substitute for the leaf's living bond with its point of attachment and nourishment. It is even harder to simulate the latter when the leaves have once become dry — as they are bound to do, for this is not the labor of a moment. Also it hardly needs saying that this the time fro repairing any neighboring trees or bushes or other growth that might have been damaged by the fall. The same rules apply. Where neighboring trees were of the same species it is difficult not to waste time conveying a detached leaf back to the wrong tree. Practice, practice. Put your hope in that.Now the tackle must be put into place, or the scaffolding, depending on the surroundings and the dimension of the tree. It is ticklish work. Almost always it involves, in itself, further damage to the area, which will have to be corrected later. But, as you've heard, it can't be helped. And care now is likely to save you considerable trouble later. Be careful to grind nothing into the ground.At last the time comes for the erecting of the trunk. By now it will scarcely be necessary to remind you of the delicacy of this huge skeleton. Every motion of the tackle, every slightly upward heave of the trunk, the branches, their elaborately reassembled panoply of leaves (now dead) will draw from you an involuntary gasp. You will watch for a lead or a twig to be snapped off yet again. You will listen for the nuts to shift in the hollow limb and you will hear whether they are indeed falling into place or are spilling in disorder — in which case, or in the event of anything else of the kind — operations will have to cease, of course, while you correct the matter. The raising itself is no small enterprise, from the moment when the chains tighten around the old bandages until the boles hands vertical above the stump, splinter above splinter. How the final straightening of the splinters themselves can take place (the preliminary work is best done while the wood is still green and soft, but at times when the splinters are not badly twisted most of the straightening is left until now, when the torn ends are face to face with each other). When the splinters are perfectly complementary the appropriate fixative is applied. Again we have no duplicate of the original substance. Ours is extremely strong, but it is rigid.[...]

the return


I plan to come back here soon in a effort to save myself from the loss of art.



I loved the idea of you and hate the reality of you.

letter: re: memories in a box


C: Tonight, I find myself quite drunk (a current character flaw that I reckon you, of all my contemporaries, will find most forgivable) and reminiscing through a box of artifacts--letters, notes, print-out, leaves, pineneedles, poems, pens, maps,--a box of things I could not bare to explore till now (drunk, distant, or otherwise). While smoking a bummed Pall Mall (another character flaw you and the economy will hopefully, forgive), it occurs to me that there is nothing like listening to you play music or enjoying our quite conversations in the dark under a gazebo in the landscape of a Lake we surely both love, "under a sky strewn with stars," as Mark Strand would describe, or in the atmosphere of an anticipated summer storm like the one that marked one of those last nights we all shared.

Stars or storms, I hope that this note finds you well and happy or as near to it as any of us dream.




you would think, by evidential lack of blogging, that i have nothing to say and that nothing is going on in my life. that is only partially true.



I am unsure whether I am Livor dead. 

the fury


v. is casket at both ends burning. 



v. is sleepy but full of nightmares, still awake, restless for the storms and the end of waiting. 

for what it is



I’m becoming a statistic. AquaNet is the glue holding it all together.  I miss listening to MTVJams in the morning, first thing when I wake up.  I look at the coffee pot on the counter and wonder how many days old it is.  I decide to drink it right from the pot. 

 I’ve always been the kind of person who sees the world for what it is rather than what it can be.  Dreamers help balance me out.

summer 2006


I’m not a fucking nun; I happen to like kool-aid flavored chapstick; ordering “the vegetable flavored thing”  on Main St. with 2 of my favs; "that shirt reminds me of a funeral..."; like bananas in the fridge, I’m learning, red, white, yellow, “be my inverse,” every 7 seconds btwn lightning and thunder equals 1 mile, light travels faster than sound; "how long can you tread water?"; GW's first first call, having "terrible chest pains," crying wolf, going vert, RIP.   

poem perceptive on pressure, perfection & parents


How my mind works: Overwhelming contemplations and concerns over the future recently,anxiety over present perfection to prepare for future legacy:I’ve got some big shoes waiting in my closet (amongst the skeleton collection),for that earth shattering day or night when I become an orphan, when I become the legacy, when I become the only. Tonight, reading an old New York Times article:A statistic startled me, the number required me to first check the calendar, then forced some quick math, a subtraction reveled the difference, the difference took my breath away. U.S.:Annual Deaths:Will reach 3 million between the years 2010 & 2040,when Baby Boomers are expected to take their last breaths. And in my mind:(F***).Today is already 2009. (we’re all running out of time) My parents. (are they Boomers?) I don’t know. Dad’s 50th this year. add another 50, (please, god), year 2059. No, not Boomers, I guess.but still, it’s 2009..the time… The future feels as close as it ever has,perfection is nevermore near.pressure buildsuntil the big boom. [...]

perfection always sounds better before procrastination


I'm writing a 30 page research essay on the currently perceived professional status of funeral directors.
Why is it I always tackle topics of this nature: all real ideas and opinions so few facts and proof.
I must choose these topics because I am trying to prove something.  
Time is running out (a terminal condition) but I'm paralyzed somewhere between perfection and procrastination.   

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard if I were already perfect; perhaps the struggle stems from trying to be something I'm not: perfect.