Man ... I don't know which I hate more, not being able to find time to write, or making time to write and then getting no "flow". The past week's been a lot of the former and today was a chunk of the latter. Writing today was like transcribing Blavatsky ... we have permission to use excerpts from the "missing" 3rd volume of The Secret Doctrine (on Occultism) for our quarterly, The Terminal Journal, and this is our "last resort" if we really don't have anything in the "slush pile". However, most of the stuff that I'd want to use from this involves typesetting both Greek and Hebrew. Being as I am only vaguely familiar with these languages (I can't read or speak either, but I do know many of the letters), it involves a long and involved process of transferring words (not wanting to look stupid for making an "obvious" mistake) in these to the new format ... usually meaning looking up each individual letter, finding it's value in a font, and then putting it in the new document ... well ... this was one of the poems that felt like that ... having to drag every line out of the void and fix it on the page. Ack.
DARKLY DRIFTING DOWN, AGAIN
deep delays long ellipses absences strung far out into histories unanticipated time gone uncontrolled
contexts shifting elements of plan in unplanned frames fortuitous unveilings trace out webs convoluted vectors which grip the day and those that follow
no forward no clearing the mists are thick the grey impenetrable we take these steps without sure faith trusting somehow in their inertia
the physical begins to fail systems falter form decays our intentions no longer matter we lose control of moments' flow
we are so lost immersed in fatigue our efforts drift our focus wanes our will no longer carries through creating action from sputtering fire
