He said, I don't usually do this kind of thinking about otherness, or what is often offered as and conflated with, clarity of perception. We like to be liked and will take, most of the time, the shortest route between home and work and back again, thorns in the side and all. Though lately I've heard about triangles forgetting their hypotenuse, which seems unlikely even during the most extreme changes in atmospheric pressure. Those buildings do seem dangerously close to falling. With these intense winds, a vast desert awaits the curiosity we've successfully held in abeyance since medieval monks delivered books in ox-carts with oaken wheels and we plan to continue thus. Mountains are grayed-in this morning. Foregrounded creatures seem larger and more alive to the eye which never misses a chance to be fooled. All of which brews an existential mood in the town and vexes the financial crowd whose calls are too upbeat so early in the day, whose connectivity yields and projections start a kind of underground rumbling that upsets the growing throng of children just beginning to notice the earth turning once again from spring towards summer. /////////////// Timothy Brennan is a poet, visual artist and woodworker. He has lived and worked in Providence, San Francisco, Brooklyn, and now New Paltz, where he has been renovating his old house for over thirty years, with no end in sight. ––I am a longtime reader of poetry but didn't begin writing until I took a French class in my fifties. Weekly writing assignments provoked a new engagement with words, grammar and syntax construction. Memories and observations translated between two languages eventually led to works of imagination (in one).
Lightwood 