Laura, the beloved muse of Petrarch died today in 1348 while mine lives not yet fully as I am living, but getting there.
at the moment I am listening to the incomparable Ana Vidovic, playing Torroba classically on a specific made guitar. These are fingers that I love to listen to, strings that squeeze my own heart.
there are other comments that go here and later I will place them in another post, or even here, who knows, I wanted to reach out with this now before I start my first busy day that is filled withsomethingotherthan writing.
speaking of which, I am becoming amazed at my daily output lately. First I write here, then work on my stories, poems and such - at night I write in my journal. Now, anyone can do these things but I never allow myself to write without concentration and intention. Also, my journal entries would fill 3-4 pages typewritten. I apparently have a lot to say.
everything here is related.
a poem not about E.E. Cummings
Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now
never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirerthat was E.E. Cummings.
- Hoc Scripsi