June 16th, 2015

The Red Tree

Summer in Retrograde

Happy Bloomsday.

We had a few days of warm weather. And now Cold Spring is back full force. High sixties yesterday, and today we might reach 78˚F, but I sort of doubt it. Currently, we're at 68˚F. In my sleep, I visit dazzlingly torrid places.

I worked on The Screenplay yesterday. I wrote about five pages to Clint Mansell's score for The Fountain and Cliff Martinez' score for Solaris. It's slow and tedious work that in no way resembles writing prose.

Today, I have to fight through the mood crash that the temperature crash brought on. Yesterday's high was more than twenty degrees cooler than Sunday's high.

Kathryn's mom is having knee surgery today.

Yesterday I read another turtle paper, "A new dermatemydid (Testudines, Kinosternoidea) from the Paleocene-Eocene Thermal Maximum, Willwood Formation, southeastern Bighorn Basin, Wyoming." And we watched the new episode of Halt and Catch Fire. We tried a couple of episodes of Mike Judge's Silicon Valley, but I found it tiresome and annoying and unfunny. It's the sort of thing that actually needs a laugh track, so you'll at least know what was meant to be humorous. So, we watched Tarantino's Jackie Brown (1997). I've seen most Tarantino films more times than I can count; I'd only ever seen Jackie Brown once, in the theatre. And Kathryn had never seen it. It's much better than I recall.

Spooky's birthday is very near now, and she has a wish list at Amazon. (hint, hint)

TTFN,
Aunt Beast
The Red Tree

"Wanting to Die"

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.
~ Anne Sexton