Monday, November 29, 2010

Lamantations Part 2

11/2/64
What is it you feel you're not getting? Put my two unpublished books in the "bottomest" draw of an otherwise unused desk. We're without sun again. I don't think I'll make it - something in the future will cast me down: there's distrust in the future because even now "I" grovel - I've gone thru so much which involves a denial of all that I do now.
I find myself performing the daily routines without much resistance or at least that's what I tell myself I do - forces that keep me wandering between this and that (no use to determine this and that any further - of what use can such a precision be?) have a way of moving the way the weather does: this comes to me while crossing a bridge mirrored in water mirroring a sky gathering about itself storm cloud.
We're trying out our new stove it sure makes for comfort: step into another room and you'll see how warm this one is.

11/4/64
There's no let up in this autumn all heaviness. When we were in S.F. I at least - despite my despair - had the hope that my trip to Japan would reap me something conducive toward survival in N.Y. - but here I've nothing to look forward to. From all this it would seem that my art must be necessity come to a stand still at an early age: that is, songs by themselves sing well but when seen all together they jar the nerves.
It came to me last night that the life lived is "nothing" if it's for the sake of inculcating propaganda: that is only that much which comes thru as use in salutary.

11/6/64
I will not propagandize for the foreign open market: that is to make songs "in praise: of the "levels" here is to do work for the Civil Rights Program "there" if you sing for children temples, etc. as a necessary out come of one's theory of "be where you are, you assume too much: that is how much is art, how much is missionary work must always touch the senses disharmoniously.
Again, the sun's here for awhile and then gone.

11/7/64
Looking at my baby girl and listening to Pergolesi: no better way to start a morning.
If I could somehow get myself back to reading then maybe recovery would be possible - I don't seem to enjoy much these days; perhaps it's due to the heaviness of this weather.
I've no wish to make songs now - there's no need to - all that I've made says no repetition is necessary.
One could comment at greater length on the last paragraph but another day.
Mostly clouds now - little blue and the songs of children from somewhere.

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