Woke before the sunrise this morning for the first time in a good amount of months. The still. Upon waking, it took me a minute to realize I was not in reality upset at a friend. That the dispute had taken place in dream life. Like Suzanne’s recent one. The argument in the dream emerged around my pain that I “caught” my friend calling someone else “Alli” and whispering things to them, the same things that they once whispered to me. My point of contention was that this person’s name was not actually “Alli” but something else, something much different. Sorry to have recounted this dream. Sorry to treat this weblog like a therapy session.

It’s Sunday. I’m reading Anne Boyer’s books of poetry blog. I’m reading the Lisa Robertson Chicago Review issue. I’m reading C.L.R. James’ Beyond a Boundary. I’m thinking about Andrew Kenower’s recent portraits and listening to Arthur Russell’s Another Thought. I’m almost closer to 30 than to 20. I don’t really have a sense of time or history. I’m navel-gazing like a true Bay Area poet. I’ve plans to soak nekkid in a warm tub with friends. I’ve plans to treat myself to a new pair of trousers, and perhaps a nice glass of wine. Maybe I should go to the museum. I missed the fourth floor last time. I always forget it’s there (or is it the fifth floor?). I have a horrible memory. Long and short-term. It’s like constantly being a new person. Self-creating. Sometimes my bad memory gets me into trouble with loved ones. I’ll forget about commitments I’ve made, or things I’ve said or heard, and then fail to live up to my word. It’s hard to feel responsible for something one doesn’t remember doing. Or saying. It’s a real problem! Though it does help with the writing of the Apology Poem. Perhaps it’s curable? Does responsibility depend on a sense of agency which extends backwards and forwards in time? From the past through the present and into the future? Is this what a promise is? Doesn't Judith Butler write about this somewhere?

How are you all? The Artifact reading on Friday was kind of epic. Erika Staiti and Michael Cross and Matvei Yankelvich read. We all squished into the parlor. I heard a lot of music. Tonally. The phrase. Then there was drankin. I think there was some sort of punch, but I was committed to bourbon. There was the removing of shoes. A neighbor came out in a robe and asked for the "tapping" to stop. What makes a tapping sound? I lost my scarf and some money (what’s that stupid Jeezy line? “lost my mind and my cell phone in the same night”). The air felt nice. Autumnal. Sorry y'all for going off about Plies and "brain". Does the period go inside or outisde? "Brain." So hey things feel good today. Might as well note it.


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