Monday, April 14, 2003

"the idea of order at key west" - wallace stevens

She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

This was reread at work today. It is such a lovely and empowering poem. I am her, the singer. It is not about singing, or maybe it is, but it is broader, there are circles, the singer circle being bound by the poet one being bound by the artist one being bound by the human being one. Because while this is definitly a poem concerned with the role of the artist and the powers they possess, it is even more so a poem about being human, an ultimatium on how we must live, there is no distinciton really to be made between that of the artist and that of the fully-realized human, to be human is to have this creative self-awareness, it is to make the world you want to live in, it is to be sincerly engaged with it.

Sincerity, above all else. There was no world for me except the one that I sang, says Stevens. But then what, my friend, if I have yet to sing? Is there a world for me? Or does my world become the songs that other people sing? Is my world mediated by their melodies? I have to make it mine, have to be more actively engaged with the world, with you. There is no world for me except the one that I sing, and singing, make. Yes, Wallace, yes. I still don't understand the Ramon Fernandez part, but that is okay. That is what Google is for.

My feet and legs are sore from tennis, from walking to and fro work, and from a lack of painkillers at work. I have taken two advils and massaged my feet. I already feel better. In T-minus 10 days, I will be on a plane to New York. I want to wish that person traveling then good luck, I am a little detached from my future, still unaware of my imminent departure. Sean has some boyfriend, he showed me pictures the other night. The boy was cute. Slight regrets are stirred by things like this. Maybe not specific to the person, but just in general. There are a couple of things I want to do before leaving SRQ:

-play an assload of tennis
-go canoeing in the bay
-spend as much time at beach as possible
-ask certain people to make out since i'll never see them after they say no
-see Spirted Away at dollar theater
-maybe get wasted at the dog track friday matinee (50 cent beers!)
-burn the town to the ground

[This entry is bookened by two sets of seven lines, Stevens' and mine. Wallace might have the better voice, he might be a far more talented writer, but he's got nothing on the dog track or on making out with crushes. Perhaps that's a good thing. I don't know.]

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