Somehow it's spurred me to let myself take it easy today.
I suppose I've always more or less subscribed to the idea that one can't not plumb one's depths sans suffering eventual debilitation therefrom the lack of. Just to say it about as arcanely (and thus as some distance) as I can. But plumbing up old gunk--- that reminds me, I might need to snake the kitchen drain again soon. Getting some gurgles there.
Messy; sometimes somewhat satisfying; physically difficult; ultimately necessary, lest all manner of globula back up and spill over in full wretched rotted festered putrified bloorg-dreck.
Perhaps I've shared with you sometime my probably favorite (Mary Barnard translation) Sappho fragment:
If you are squeamish
Don't prod the
I do love it. But let's suppose the longer work. I was thinking up options that way, in bed at 4:30 this morning.
Hey, there goes that little girl next door, Riley, the visiting granddaughter. The one who likes me, and whom the grown-ups call back into the house when they see us talking. Looks like stripey socks sticking out the tops of the cool boots she's lovin'.
if you are squeamish
don't prod the
but shoes on,
with a plan
for poison if bitten --
mobile + insurance
or, if we, or
back on Lesbos,
a lover to
suck it out
I'd welcome other riffs on it, if any of you are up for it. C'mon. Let's play.
Might think more myself about the fragment coming from the middle, or the end.