Creating Order

First, the unknown in the lover: turns out M was unavailable by phone allllll day Super Tuesday. I was going to invite him to come vote with me (should we vote at the same polling location) or meet after (should we not). But, nooooohoohoo, Mr. Very Available to Moi was not so. Why? Why? It was strange. Because, he was an election judge. Just another reason to admire him: he does good things, and doesn't brag. And I voted, which was an attempt at a new order, too.

Second, the unknown in the self: I had an organizational fit. Like, I think, most people, I do not purge objects in one concentrated blitzkrieg of shedding. I do this in bits and peices: some books here, some papers there, some clothes here, etc. So, part of the rainy Super Tuesday cum Mardi Gras, I was sorting out my desk (which had slowly become clogged and useless -- father's daughter there) and my dynamite box in which I keep an assortment of files and old copies of poems (same problem). Low and behold, I ascetically sent to the burn box all the drafts of old poems. Whatever those thoughts were, it seems someone else had them, and most of the poems were crap anyway. But, again, low and behold, a Whole Bunch of Notes and Research For The Poetics book about which I had totally forgotten and now pretty much can't use (meaning, fit into the book, not that the work of these Esteemed Others is useless). F*ck. Here I am, face to face and mano e mano with my impulse to compendium, not so much totality as transparency, and cornucopia, not so much responsibility as generosity. Oh well. Am going to have to just Stop All That.

Just know that when you read this book, there's lots of sources that I could have referred you to that are not in it. There are plenty to get you oriented, but just not every single one.

Third: the unknown book: The Medusa Frequency by Russell Hoban, a Brit, which is very much about one fellow's rather serious difficulty in finding a new order for himself. It's subtle and smart fun with all manner of synchronicity and mythos layered in, and some hope in it. Do read it. You'll have to order it used since it's out of print in the US (if you're in the US, that is).

Conclusion: Time to stop the Klage.

Addendum: I have lots of looking up words to do. I generally LOVE Fowlie's translation of Perse's Amers, but there's a word here and there that in French I suspect carries valences we need two words to carry in English (because that IS the nature of that particular interval), and because his choices seem occasionally a shade too dark. Though the poem is not without this darkness, threat, danger, I'm just not sure it's as terrible as he does. We shall see. Picture me with dictionaries, sorting through French words I don't know / forgot. (Hmph, in looking for that link, I discovered that Perse was buddies with Dag Hammarksjold, second secretary-general of the UN and rather interesting ethic0-mystical thinker. Not too shocking, P was a diplomat for France for a much of H's tenure. But, Hmmmmm... speaking of synchronicities).