Tuesday, March 28, 2006

The Indescribable Life 

The evening sky is full of stars
I think that red thing there is Mars
And in the distance, passing cars
Weave homeward from our local bars

Poem fragments flit through my brain. I look up vilanelle to see if the form is coming; lose myself in other people's words.

Form is my prompt. Writing is my therapy, my meditation. The blog is what has kept me sane for these fifteen hundred posts -- today's milestone, this one, right here, right now. To give it up would be to give up the long-held illusion that I am manageable.

To blog about it again would be banal.

It was a week exquisite, like every week before. My first experience with standardized no child left behind testing. A beaver sighting at the downstream dam. Trout fishermen and their children. My wife's full-day outing with my mother while my father and I watched the kids. Willow and I hand in hand in the late Northampton sunshine, all the way back to the toy store to return the doll she stole for her sister's birthday.

But the world did not end while I waited to blog it. Truly, a week unbloggable is only one mote off, a tenth of a degree different or less, too subtly something else for words.

Perhaps the world will keep spinning after all. Perhaps it is too late for any imitative semblance of forced order, any organizing principle to make a dent in what is somehow an undercurrent life.

Perhaps the life unexamined is equally worth. Perhaps it is the life lived, instead.

How fitting to have hit my fifteen hundredth post today, and be once again writing as if it were the end of the public life lived. How curious to be alive at all, really. The world turns, blogged or un-, and having been written, moves on.

posted by boyhowdy | 8:51 PM |

yea, but what do you feel about all those other 1499 posts?
"an undercurrent life"
"the life unexamined is equally worth"
ahhh... "the life lived"
it is curious, to say the least

your writing, always planted steadfastly in the field of beauty, where words are the dirt, the foliage, the details - and when seen together as phrases, these are the colors of the seasons and of the heart who writes
and reads

~beautifully done, again~
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