January 10, 2009

Moon glorious in his rising. I saw him set this morning ice white and far to the north of anywhere I remember him.

Pot luck at Jack’s last night. I’d been so sick and so medicated all my energy went in to staying awake. But I did cook a heroic Brussels sprout and sausage casserole.

Sang for Marty Fullington’s funeral service this afternoon. He was nine months younger than I.

It’s odd that I can’t speak but I can sing. Force is necessary to make those snotty vocal cords resound.

As I rounded the corner of the building, heading for my car after a nightcap at the Usual, I heard the Voice. The voice that is cold and clear, that is truth without nuance. It was the third time it spoke to me. The first time was on Nimmo’s Quay in Galway. The second time was in St. Thomas in New York .
It said, “David, do you fear me?”
Knowing what it meant, I answered “Yes, Lord.”
Yes, I fear that you will waste my life, that you will steal from me my heart’s desire, that this all has been an absurd futility. You will say it is not malice, but that there are reasons I do not understand, and I will half believe you and half not. Three quarters not. It asked, “David, do you fear me?” I think it really wanted to know.

Sometimes Circe cringes and backs away when I make a sudden gesture. I was going to build an similitude out of that, but the comparison is faulty: I have never hurt my cat.

Visited the Irish dance class at the Arts Center, Heather wants to collaborate on a program for her dancers at the Wortham. It formed full in my mind as soon as I saw the dancers enter with their hair askew and their sweaters tied around their waists.

Have written massively in the last few days. Wrote my Inaugural piece. Wrote Cream Cat Cantos. Put together In a Garden Overrun out of little poems, none more than a page, with that metaphysical tone that is a minority–but a strong–presence in my work. Some very old work–Syracuse, even Akron, one, I think, from Hiram. Haven’t written seriously on a play since Chicago: that’s something to add to the ledger.
Strange how many poems I have about my friendship with Dan. It started so lyrical, but–I won’t say ended– dwells in such exhaustion.

DJ fell coming out of church, and when we parted he was in that fury that comes after a fall. If I knew anything to say, I would say it.

Strange, mystical sleep last night. It was light and dark at once. There was a presence in my room.