Ah, such scenic and calm environment to discuss Jim Harrison’s In Search of Small Gods. The falling leaves and the cold breeze however stole my attention; kidnapping it to believe that I was with Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita instead of Harrison. It’s been sitting patiently on my end table and nodding in consideration for I’ve no time to read for pleasure. I do however enjoy reading Harrison at least in comparison with the previous poets, which I find either too morbid or too much talk about birds/ nature it was nauseating.
What has become ritual? The book reading, the assigned writing, and the hay wired sleeping pattern. On average for the past few weeks, I dozed off three to four hours with Munky finding it’s own sleep button while I played on TV shows as lullabies. Insomnia is hardly a disease but a habit. Then I saw the pocket-sized journal I’ve carried tirelessly everyday in my bag today and I realized how days have gone by that I did not bother to ink down/ to doodle in words.
“Sometimes the fog lies thicker around you than your past,” Adrienne Rich.
And I remember how disturbed I was (or am) after graduating Rich’s Your Native Land, Your Life. Also in finding the too generosity of temperament at indecent times with faulty personalities, I become more or less amused or amazed (?) with the juxtapose of mind and action. I find solemn in quietly detoxing naysayers and gradually up-leveling the ability to skim through what appears to be claptrap. I’m sure it’s potentially useful maybe 20% of the times but to embed as a trait is… something to think about.
I know I miss having mom to "whatsapp" 24/7 now that she has dad everyday and they travel across Indonesia frequently like the bus I hop onto every other morning at 8:51 a.m. Since Aida graduated and that I shifted you in a different perspective, the vacancy can at times be emotionally numbing.
Who could intercede in His presence without His permission? (2:255)
