. . . .

AWP

***

. . .

If you can understand: I no longer believe I am living a dream.

***

. .

Let them go.

***

week five

Also the Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas. Also an achy-chill day when I should not be sleeping off a bug but am. Also warmer already than it's been in days, but still the water in the kitchen is frozen to a trickle and the fridge is freezing my spinach, my coke. The yogurt is too cold in my mouth this morning. It makes my teeth ache, when really I just want the almonds I put in it. It's true, I'm learning something difficult to learn about friendship again and I don't know what it is. "We don't lack love. We lack intelligence." No but we lack love too, I do. It's a minefield in here. I don't trust myself not to throw it at you.

***

And desire ... "I did not see you descending, but now I see you ascending. Why do you lie, since you belong to me?" The soul answered and said, "I saw you. You did not see me nor recognize me. I served you as a garment, and you did not know me." When it had said this, it went away, rejoicing greatly.

--from the apocryphal gospel of Mary

***

third Sunday in ordinary time

. . . . . .

. . . . .

So how is it done: the I seeking itself in itself now where what is finished requires finishing, the I determined in its I to bring the I forth in its own regard, the I in realization, in conception, in equation, the two symmetrical halves of its head spiraling east and west into the thicket, the head ramming its way into the midst by the horns, by the haunches, where sinews divided into sinews and mounted the bones and bound them, too, tooth to jaw, eye to socket, articulation to articulation, and the ribs on either side thrust their panoply from the spine and met in the middle, and the spine held the head alert while the head willed the spine to hoof it forward, and the spine did, shoulders, hamstrings, heaving behind the coiled head which way it turned, though the head stuck fast behind the eyes rolling in the head, though the eyes held fast to the wool of the thicket, it did.

&

***

week four

second Sunday in ordinary time

One view until I was seven. Holy Cross Church, Morenci, Arizona. Also the fathers' house.

***

. . . . . .

The way down from the fathers' house.

***

. . . .

The way up to the fathers' house.

***

. . .

"The end of a thing is the term of its appetite." --Aquinas

***

week three

Feast of the Bapstism of Christ

The fathers' house.

***

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

[disappeared it]

***

week two

Terrible insomnia. My head is troubled and on no good account. While everything is that beautiful, it is also that heavy. It's as if something attractive is missing, something incredibly familiar. So there was that blush to the roots about which I am clueless. Evidence of something I did: but what the heck what?

***

"... but it's not a matter of reason, you see, it's a matter of love."

***

"Contemplation: a real encounter with the other--an attraction to the other--a choice not based on fidelity but linked to the Father's gaze upon His Son. My own gaze at myself is perfectionistic. But understanding does not perfect me. Trying to be virtuous does not perfect me. It is His gaze that attains my goodness. We have a tendency to look at our faults, but we should strive to gaze at others (and at ourselves) through the gaze of the Father: an active receptivity, a constant vigilance, a trying to open the will to the one who calls, always in the service of loving, in the perfection in goodness, in love. We accept to be attracted, we accept to depend, and we try to cooperate with this attraction rather than try to be virtuous."

notes from "The Vocation of the Oblate," Fr Joseph Mary, fsj

***

Feast of the Epiphany

An appearance or manifestation, esp. of a deity. A sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

***

In my end is my beginning.

***

. . . . . .

first day of school

Meanwhile the usual holds true. The hot water frozen in the kitchen, the house in a state, the date book bringing the weeks into being. I am stepping over things. I am taking it easy, one thing at a time (for time is a measurement of "corruption," whatever that means). Ten minutes outside of Galesburg, twenty hours from the border of Mexico, my tire hit a bump in the snow and blew. I waited for the tow in the dark with the ice blowing across the fields into the highway and the cat sleeping in back of me. Not even this, somehow, dispels what feels like gratitude. What must be gratitude. Ice on every surface but the trees. The sky is pink, just now. And I notice today a small window on the door of the yellow house a block away. It faces the street. It winks as the traffic passes in reflection. It will, even while I am not here to see it.

***

And I don't feel like washing dishes.

***

Poetry translation course? "The Dream of the Rood"

Hwæt! Ic swefna cyst secgan wylle,
hwæt me gemætte to midre nihte,
syðþan reordberend reste wunedon!
þuhte me þæt ic gesawe syllicre treow

5

on lyft lædan, leohte bewunden,
beama beorhtost. Eall þæt beacen wæs
begoten mid golde. Gimmas stodon
fægere æt foldan sceatum, swylce þær fife wæron
uppe on þam eaxlegespanne. Beheoldon þær engel dryhtnes ealle,

10

fægere þurh forðgesceaft. Ne wæs ðær huru fracodes gealga,
ac hine þær beheoldon halige gastas,
men ofer moldan, ond eall þeos mære gesceaft.
Syllic wæs se sigebeam, ond ic synnum fah,
forwunded mid wommum. Geseah ic wuldres treow,

15

wædum geweorðode, wynnum scinan,
gegyred mid golde; gimmas hæfdon
bewrigene weorðlice wealdendes treow.
Hwæðre ic þurh þæt gold ongytan meahte
earmra ærgewin, þæt hit ærest ongan

20

swætan on þa swiðran healfe. Eall ic wæs mid sorgum gedrefed,
forht ic wæs for þære fægran gesyhðe. Geseah ic þæt fuse beacen
wendan wædum ond bleom; hwilum hit wæs mid wætan bestemed,
beswyled mid swates gange, hwilum mid since gegyrwed.
Hwæðre ic þær licgende lange hwile

25

beheold hreowcearig hælendes treow,
oððæt ic gehyrde þæt hit hleoðrode.
Ongan þa word sprecan wudu selesta:
"þæt wæs geara iu, (ic þæt gyta geman),
þæt ic wæs aheawen holtes on ende,

30

astyred of stefne minum. Genaman me ðær strange feondas,
geworhton him þær to wæfersyne, heton me heora wergas hebban.
Bæron me ðær beornas on eaxlum, oððæt hie me on beorg asetton,
gefæstnodon me þær feondas genoge. Geseah ic þa frean mancynnes
efstan elne mycle þæt he me wolde on gestigan.

35

þær ic þa ne dorste ofer dryhtnes word
bugan oððe berstan, þa ic bifian geseah
eorðan sceatas. Ealle ic mihte
feondas gefyllan, hwæðre ic fæste stod.
Ongyrede hine þa geong hæleð, (þæt wæs god ælmihtig),

40

strang ond stiðmod. Gestah he on gealgan heanne,
modig on manigra gesyhðe, þa he wolde mancyn lysan.
Bifode ic þa me se beorn ymbclypte. Ne dorste ic hwæðre bugan to eorðan,
feallan to foldan sceatum, ac ic sceolde fæste standan.
Rod wæs ic aræred. Ahof ic ricne cyning,

45

heofona hlaford, hyldan me ne dorste.
þurhdrifan hi me mid deorcan næglum. On me syndon þa dolg gesiene,
opene inwidhlemmas. Ne dorste ic hira nænigum sceððan.
Bysmeredon hie unc butu ætgædere. Eall ic wæs mid blode bestemed,
begoten of þæs guman sidan, siððan he hæfde his gast onsended.

***

. . . .

What today looked like.

***