I'm sitting here with a fresh memory product of how I feel/felt about my day today. That the “memory” changes in/with time—memory inherently (con)(re)str(ucted)(ained) by time—making it not much use/else—I need something more than temporality. To hold onto.

Creeley says:

“What I understood, I understand.
My mind is sometime torment,
sometimes good and filled with livelihood,
and feels the ground.

But I see the door,
and knew the wall, and wanted the wood,
and would get there if I could
with my feet and hands and mind.”

What I’m recalling now. In the forefront: on the walk home, man working on a rooftop screwing screws, tar-papering what-have-you. Spots me approaching, prepares, then eyes me my whole walk past quite the "aggressively" ("sexually"—this is same?)—I look down at myself—
t-shirt and jeans fine okay—my mind occurs reaction to how his looking makes me “feel," evaluating that feeling, criticizing that evaluation, demanding another feeling/evaluation/criticism of my mind—I want the construction worker to be a splendid little teddy bear.

Pangs. Longing. I don’t know. What’s the word. Longing’s everything as capitalism is. This longing will indeed be as long in “reality” as I fear, long as it seems on city streets and the telephone in the shower atop the stove beside the bed? Then I will say with certainty we’re right about the nothingness and hushing noises?

That I cannot (willfully, possibly?) adequately address anything. I check my email a lot expecting various sorts of love notes. Does it happen. Do I say about life, there was nothing to read, the boys snapped my bra? I'm listening to Nashville Skyline. How to.

“Lady, do not banish me
for digressions. My nature
is a quagmire of unresolved
confessions. Lady, I follow.”