Battlefield

I write to keep from dying. Look at it another way, if I wasn't doing this, what would I be doing? There aren't that many options. You could go to a Red Sox's game, birth some goats, poke through some shit that drifted ashore, but ultimately you're left with yourself. I'm fine with that, an oddly Greek playing field. You look for the modern and you're confronted with Sappho, you dutifully do your reading and there's Emily. There's an irony here, but I won't go there. Looking at a letter from Cellini to Michelangelo, I parse out the language as if it were Latin, get out a few dictionaries, he seems to be bitching about not getting paid. I'm a terrible translator but I want to know what's being said. That's the way life is. Always on the verge of understanding. Making sense is tricky business. For instance, the other day I was vacuuming the theater, not a thought in my head, merely cleaning, and there was a sparkle that caught my eye. Pegi, knew that I had banned glitter and grapes, I knew that she knew she should pay attention to what I thought. One sparkle, it disturbed my sensibilities. I don't think so, but. What lingers as meaning. We're on the cusp here, I'm not sure it matters if you're on board. I have no choice in the matter, I do what I must, What seemed to be real became tangible. Right, I can deal with this.