tavie.com

Aggie today rescued me from another drowsy evening of dust mites and internet-surfing by allowing me to invade her pretty Bohemian cave and share her company. The smallest change in routine helps. She allowed me to unload.

I am dreading the coming weekend of being stuck in the mire of this apartment, which swallows us like it was a Venus flytrap and saps us of the energy to fight for escape. We want to go out and enjoy the world but the clutter and dust bogs robs our will to dress and escape and do anything much but sit in front of the computer or the tv in crappy, falling-apart furniture.

Sister is having a tough time of it and I promised my parents I would not abandon her every weekend. She is welcome at Mint Manor but does not this time wish to go, for some reason. She has much studying and many cramps and much depression and I must be here to share in her discomfort. If this sounds like a complaint it's because it probably is, but I do not wish to complain about it. It's unsisterly. I am worried about her and try to tempt her with her favourite foods and promises of amusing activities we can do together. We must take care of each other in our parents' absence but I fear I am not doing a bang-up job of it.

I am so glad we are done with Ezra Pound. I was reading from Wallace Stevens instead of paying attention today and found I have scribbled on my hand, "I am too dumbly in my being pent."
Ah, resonance in a Stevens poem! I am finally relating! I will relate:

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad

The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know.
I am too dumbly in my being pent.

The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.

The malady of the quotidian...
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze,

One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.

Yes, that works for me now. I am tired of being bored and angst-y, but as long as I am I'll enjoy poetry that reflects it.

I think Erica will come with us this Friday to see my little love in On the Town. I will be strong and
not follow Gina home afterwards, because I promised.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:07 AM | shower me with attention