I usually resist the urge to write blogs in the morning, because the morning is new and by the end of the day whatever I wrote seems impossibly obselete.  It’s 9:12, though, and there are things I have to say before they become obselete, or (if this is actually truer) before I become dusty and old.

I’m coming back into some kind of beauty, and I have no idea why.  For months I’ve felt either crowded or empty, too much with people or too little, and the fields in my soul have been mown with tractors, leaving sharp stubble, no flowers, etc.  But I’ve been reading some of Franz Wright’s new prose, I’ve been finishing Moby Dick, I’ve been grabbing something like the sleeve of God and have been following Him around sometimes with my face upward, upward.  Being-in-a-relationship is of course nothing like I expected and now that I’m beginning to calm down about it, about my new roommates settling in, about rent and the other four bills sitting in a stack over there, about God in fact still being interested in my life, I’m seeing this mown inner field growing longer, it’s tender blades now, they’re starting to ripple in the breeze and those are swallows falling through.

I was reading Beuchner this morning and wondered if I would someday be able to write with that sort of transparency, the strong poetic language trying very hard to make something besides itself clear.  That’s incredible, it’s almost like what I mean when I say I want the signifier to lead inexorably to the signified.  I love style, but the self-conscious opacity of people like Melville (so far) is unsatisfying, so unsatisfying that reading these Beuchner excerpts is like getting the walls and roof taken off your room while you’re sitting there, typing on your computer.  They come off with a rushing of air and suddenly you’re outdoors, blue sky overhead.  It’s surgical, almost like all good poetry, prying at the artificialness or scar tissue of that one room in your heart.

Anyway, I’m starting the day with coffee, Starbuck’s dark roast that’s been sitting in the cabinet for maybe a year (still good!), with another shortening scone, yellow lamplight, yellow flowers, blue blue garrett and everything either in stacks or bouquets and letters from my sisters on the table.  I am not lonely, this morning.  I have days that begin with a makeshift hopefulness and then run into the ground, and I have days in which I remember something true in the morning and write it on my arm so that I’ll know what to do when I get lost.  Which I will.  God, like a parent in the mall, writing down His information on my arm so that I remember who I belong to when I run away and am accosted by strangers.