remuemenage

yesterday:

the stillness of the city on a Saturday morning. black men joyously greeting one another. the breeze in my face filled with the promise of Spring - birdsong dancing in the air. waiting for my bike to get back from the shop - the exhilarating feeling of pushing yourself through space

today:

buses trundle through the grey wakening city - the pulse of life thickening though the day resists realization, refusing to take shape. a wet dreary smudge infiltrates the mind, the bones and hangs in the air. pressing against it, I clean the clutter from my apartment - and the sun shows its face, winged messenger that lifts my spirits

still no bike

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and now - Jethro's poetry corner

Connoisseur of Chaos
-Wallace Stevens-

1

A. A violent order is disorder; and
B. A great disorder is an order. These
Two things are one. (Pages of illustrations)

2

If all the green of spring was blue, and it is;
If the flowers of South Africa were bright
On the tables of Connecticut, and they are;
If Englishman lived without tea in Ceylon, and they do;
And if it all went on in an orderly way,
And it does; a law of inherent opposites,
Of essential unity, is as pleasant as port,
As pleasant as the brushstrokes of a bough,
An upper, particular bough in, say, Marchand

3

After all the pretty contrast of life and death
Proves that these opposite things partake of one,
At least that was the theory, when bishop's books
Resolved the world. We cannot go back to that.
If one may say so. And yet relation appears,
A small relation expanding like the shade
Of a cloud on sand, a shape on the side of a hill.

4

A. Well, an old order is a violent one.
This proves nothing. Just one more truth, one more
Element in the immense disorder of truths.
B. It is April as I write. The wind
Is blowing after days of constant rain.
All this, of course, will come to summer soon.
But suppose the disorder of truths should ever come
To an order, most Plantagenet, most fixed ...
A great disorder is an order. Now, A
And B are not like statuary, posed
For a vista in the Louvre. They are things chalked
On the sidewalk so that the pensive man may see.
The pensive man ... he sees that eagle float
For which the intricate Alps are a single nest