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11.30.4
entropy
Woke up from last night's dream thinking that there was a "soul's boot," a black cat with white paws, that I send out from the house when I fall asleep at night and which returns in the morning from wandering the streets when I inhale that waking breath. For some reason it seemed profound, but it isn't.And my room, which as I said a couple days ago had no heat, now has neither heat nor light until I remember to borrow a stepladder . . .
It's cold: the face under the face
and the body wearing the body
of the person I hoped to be. (to mis-paraphrase Denis Johnson)
Regarding James Tate and the question of whether he has mysterious talents or is just an inferior Ashbery, I can't decide . . .
Listened to a Billy Collins reading my dad ripped for me for my birthday. Ripped! And as for democratic & fatuous Collins, he is growing on me again.
Sneezing. Started Arthur: The Quest for Excalibur. Read that John Barrymore, Jr. died and grieved a little for his long-gone dad: sorry, Junior, and goodnight
Comments
Which Tate did you read? I have checked out a bunch, and much prefer the new, smoother vignettes to his older stuff, which seems more like it could be read as cheap Ashbery. (Though I liked some of that too.)
i have a real ladder you could borrow though i don't suppose you'd want to carry it all the way home!