My dearest Bleaders,
Today is the kind of day the word susurration was born to serve. The trees out my window are full of dry leaves and seed pods and the wind is blowing around the bower. A visiting longhaired cat is glowering at big leaves bumping around with the breeze, and a lone last pepper dipping on its branch like a grounded fledgling flitting around. Riveting programing.
It is reasonable to be seasonably sensible to Keats, at least so much as to respond to the need for an inner struggle to take place in a physical space and that space to be a stubbled field after harvest.
But are we bird, or leaf, or cat? Real or imaginary? I'm the pepper, you're the cat. Sadly, there is no bird. There is a mansion in Asia Minor in which each room is a poem with women who come and go talking of Michelangelo, and a room with a girl sitting in the curve of a colossal marble ear, and out front there is a beak in a heart and a form on a door. Out back is the newly shorn staffs of wheat and corn. And there we are, on a picnic blanket, not forlorn but arguing with our actual demons who are plump and angry and we are grotesque but they are getting tired, even of us. Let's just try to hold on and see what happens after dark.