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Saturday, January 28, 2012

A myth is a lie breathed through silver.

The Existence of the World Is a Controversy

After the photograph, the class wandered off and I wondered why so often I found myself the last man. Because I'd read Emerson all summer long, I took my lack of discomfort to be a sign of heroic standing.

So I determined to set for myself a new relation to the universe, to write poems. As if one could settle, once and for all, the question whether or not vocation is all.

Solitude can become a rotten habit. I remember how acute the contentment, Friday nights especially, my reflection in the television.

What passes for turning inward, for study and for art, can slip unnoticed into a well-practiced jeopardy, a narrative fortress projecting the story of separation into a post-quotidian SIGNIFICANT LIFE. A myth is a lie breathed through silver.

Peace, not necessarily the doing of peaceful spirits, can lead to believing that being a person is easy.

On my honeymoon, I thought to myself You'll never be alone again. Inside the wigwam suite, clothes scattered around the bearskin rug, an Indian-warrior gelatin print—his feathers new, his face deep-lined and droughted—as my eyewitness, I wondered what might happen if I surrendered, with a few conditions, to this bright casualty.


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