to be continued

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A blog becomes a book read from the last page today
back into its genealogy, as lettering trails among re-
called times like a breeze or ghostly license

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springularity

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I’m no hermit, but I sympathize with the monkish way of life: highly away from chaotic city life below.

Love of solitude may have mystique, but it’s mostly cause for being forgotten—which is OK: Sought aloneness isn’t lonely.

Coincidently, when I went to bed last night, I realized again
(as I do sometimes) that I’m glad no one’s in bed with me.
I cherish the silence, reverie fading to sleep. So it goes when everyone you’ve loved is dead.

Daily, I cherish the hours at my desk, my keyboard, my tens of open-ended writing projects. As I “told” Jacques, I’m “never lonely, you know, just so singular, solitudinous by now.”

And I’m alone with “you,” whomever I keep near to mind.

expressions

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I know the name of very few varieties of flowers, but I’m some-
times fascinated that a field of the same variety of flower—or
a flowering bush or tree—has variety among the blossoms.

Biologists call it “phenotypic” differences of genotypic expressions. Horticulturalists may aim to cultivate the best, most flourishing expressions of a kind—or risk their life to find a rare kind (e.g., orchid hunters in the tropics).

But mostly, the varietality of so many varieties of life goes unseen. Singularities of a kind go unseen.

love life

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Really.

“Yeah, but haven’t you worn out the story through so many sentimentalist postings in earlier years? Get over it.”

I did. That’s it. The full version. No more haunting. I’ve moved on.

“Really.”

Really.

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love and gravity: 16 months aftermy story

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In the relay odyssey of life, I happily slowed
my trek to bring you along, Linda. We sailed together
awhile. You fell behind. I slowed my pace. But
you fell behind further, and too often, until
I was gone from your lowland view because you
after all, weren’t Katherine: You wouldn’t learn to fly.

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café transcript on the identity of Art

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The origin of the following (far below here) bit of dialogue from some years ago has a history which is two degrees of separation from me: A friend of mine, Gene, from college decades ago, turned up last year at the funeral of his close friend, Thom, whose journalism I’d read occasionally. Detailing why this matters would get very involved, but—in a phrase—Thom’s link to Gene is causing Gene to be sought by foreign agents. I know that’s tritely implausible. But again, there’s a history that gets very involved. There’s no good place to start. So, I start here, though not yet to explain.

a few of the loves gained and lost through the years

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Mar. 6

Last night, I streamed “The Handmaiden” (2016) which is amazing—and thanks to the stop-and-start option of streaming, one can be sure to not get frustrated by subtitle reading amid major action. Later discussing this feminist fable of duplicity will be fun.

Now, I’m going to stream “The Souvenir” (2019).

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Mar. 8

“The Souvenir” is well done. I read that it received highest honors at Sundance. I see why—but I didn’t like it. I recognized that I was seeing mature filmmaking that I didn’t like, then slept into Daylight Saving Time resenting Julie’s naïveté, her being seduced into a Rescuer role by her suave (and phony) boyfriend’s control of her. I became an impatient woman wanting Julie to grow up faster.

a muse

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1970: I graduated from university, living in an urban commune, doing mescaline (with “In Search of the Lost Chord” between my ears), reading Joyce, Sartre, Husserl (mygod)....

Tonight, I saw the video of “Joni Mitchell Live at the Isle of Wight Festival, 1970,” new for me, as someone who “worshipped” her, from circa 1971 through the mid-‘80s. [Insert biography of Gary, 1972—1985 in terms of Joni Mitchell songs.]

At the Isle, she’s not the jaded jazz voice, tending toward tonally oblique experimentalism. She’s the girlish folk singer (not looking 27 years old). The camera is commonly on her tightly when she’s at the piano (much closer than the photo here, performing for a crowd of 600,000!), though from a physical distance that would make the intimacy unknown to her, immersed in her songs. The camera’s intimacy feels almost invasive.

an image imagining me

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You know my confessional blog from years ago—so silly at times, but remediable. I ceased doing it in 2011, then wanted to continue in 2015, but barely did so. Well, why not do something with its non-embarrassing postings and begin anew?

mourning walk

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I saw again last night the Juliette Binoche film “Paris” (2009) that I’d seen when it was first released in the U.S., September 2009. I’d forgotten how depressive it could be for someone on the verge of suicide. But it’s not a suicidal movie; just the opposite! Latent to it is luscious validation of life. But someone on the edge of suicide could easily fail to see.

philologist saunters by glade

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There is no pure beginning.... The Oxford University Press 30%-off sale online caused me to see that there were no new books I have to have this week (a relief: I don’t know what to do with the ones I have, apart from the hundred-or-so supposed to be priorities for near-term prospecting). But I realized I really want to see what’s what with David Sobel’s From Valuing to Value, which is available at the library. So, out I went.

note to self: don’t be haunted

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Vanessa Redgrave plays Mrs. Dalloway well. She would.
(I streamed the movie last night.)

The soldier suffering delayed PTSD in Mrs. Dalloway suddenly, in front of his wife, lets himself fall out his apartment window and impales on the iron fence below, as if it was just an impulsive retort to a passerby on the street about the surreality of polite society after surviving Hell.

imaginary yarn

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Having lived through perhaps too many filmic transpositions
of Austenian voices to now avoid teasing your pique toward proper names as modifiers, I avow a persistence of Romanticism as everlasting love of remembering.

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critical artist as obituarial character

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The March 20 ’s g.com posting—same name as this one—got updated, but only briefly—albeit obscurely enough (keeping true
to myself, you know).

to a muse

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Why there were tropes as Muses descends from why there’s personification at all: tree limbs moving, toys responding, friends imagined, gods, and angels.

Originally a muse is a way to be: in a muse, a play of mind, a reverie. Being drawn into rumination, being given in to presencing, objectifies itself into the presence of it all, which is at once a self-differentiation as the sway of swaying, play of playing: wind, inspiration apart from self-swaying, enspiriting itself. The presence emblemizes the play, appealing as a part of one apart from one, “there” marked as the appeal in itself, possibly promising a return of its potential or reincarnation of playing in terms of its terms or tangibles: psychic mirrors of one’s own potential for more musing. Wondering becomes personal wonder engaging one: a muse in “me.”

memo to Pegeen

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O, Pegeen, I’m sorrowed to hear that your husband was supposed to save you from suicide, but didn’t show up in time. Maybe, Sylvia Plath had a similar expectation.

Men!

“Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict” is delicious, if you can forget that, by now, the art is cliché. The art was regarded as worthless at the time! Peggy Guggenheim was an idiosyncratic savant, a naïve existentialist before Paris existentialism. She was living outsider art before it keynoted the mid-century.

catkins, Kathryne

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Kathryne jumped off the ice-encrusted bridge before her students’ final papers were graded, December 2010. So, I guess her impulse to give up wasn’t premeditated. She dearly loved her kitty cat, but didn’t leave instructions about that (I was told). Virginia Woolf had a rather deliberate approach to the option. I don’t know whether she loved cats. November 2009, Janna’s approach was elaborate, methodic, including a note to be e-mailed after her death to everyone who loved her and directions about what to do with her cats.

There will be spring!...

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...though maybe you find spring figuratively in your work, no matter the winter. I hope so!

Facebook algorithms thought I might know you—evidently because I saw your Facebook page years ago, when we were corresponding by e-mail—not via Facebook!—about history. Technology! [Other readers: Johanna in icy Michigan got an e-mail about this posting.]

I’m still engaged with Habermas’s work, and a new set of essays by him is coming into English this spring, The Lure of Technocracy. I’m still a promoter of his work, even though I disagree with him like one may disagree exuberantly with one’s much-loved partner.

so wayfaring

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A way to gain distance on the recent present is to nest it in narrative frames, the more frames the better for the gaining.

So, finished with Habermasian philosophy, I created a new home page framework for gedavis.com which anticipates unnamed work through a page called “wayfaring,” about which I had no intent of feeling at one point your voice happening in my writing “I love it”— though I said “like one may love an era of their life: integral to moving on.”

That page will move on, too. Only its first version would be so short, so ending that way. Yet, it wasn’t a unique moment. Your voice happens. There seems to be no week in which you’ve gone away.

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sunrise, sunset, winter, spring

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I’m forever haunted by Kathryne’s suicide.

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