September 30, 2006


Morning began in the red armchair with the prophet Hosea and the northern chickadee on the table to my left carved by a deceased fisherman and cousin, and thoughts skip from the prophet who married a whore to Cape Cod where red tides close down shell fishing. And so the world is one, and now in the dark out into it having donned my favorite moth eaten lamb’s wool 3 button sweater that I garden in, in cool weather.

The green lawn speaks continuity and respite, even in the dark; it has a kinetic symbolic energy found latent in all nouns. It brings peace to my soul and pleasure. The symbolic gives rise to thought, and the green lawn’s implication is the surplus of being.

Yesterday: treatment 4 in the 2nd 12 week cycle of treatments included again a dose of subcutaneously injected Procrit because the red blood cell count was 10.8, up from one week ago, but still too low. Already she has donned her hair and is out the door to violate the Sabbath rest and give aid to those who suffer at Emory hospital. There is too much too little. (Don’t weep for me, Dulcinea….) It lays on me like a black pall of the olden days.