12-17-2017, 12:41 AM
Hi flowerburgers.
Further thoughts.
...
People with problems
remember. I remembered better
than anyone without a problem,
drew the seismograph
of my days, the happy ones
tallest. This, I thought, was how time
should be measured,
by height, the bad days small
and fast.
I like the seismograph idea, though, according to google,
a seismograph is the instrument that draws a
seismogram. And given the San Francisco section...
(Preferred the Richter scale to a calendar)
What did I remember?
Moon-gulped hills. Being mad
at everyone.
I wrote emails to enemies
that I did not send.
I wrote letters, real ones,
in the scrawl I’d perfected
in chemistry class.
Don't think these lines are that successful.
N keeps saying 'I don't remember'
so the question here seems jarring.
(To what/whom is it a response?)
Is it the intention for 'moon-gulped'
to modify the meaning of 'being mad'?
I wanted to be Rimbaud.
I was too old, already,
to be Rimbaud, so who could I be? Outside,
the repetition of Rimbaud doesn't work for me,
makes for a rather 'unnatural' sentence.
Would suggest;
I wanted to be Rimbaud,
but was too old already, so who...
I read long books about Canada, the alien
continent that Frye had described
in The Bush Garden.
I read Wuthering Heights
and did not finish.
really want to add an 'it' to the end of this sentence
I rode my bike down old hills.
I sold my bike in winter,
and went home.
In San Francisco, in the thin coil
of my twenties, I armed myself
with the names of streets. I kept them
in a notebook. How else to know a place?
Armed seems such a strong word, I keep waiting
for another military attribute to appear (in the notebook
itself or in the order/formation of the lists or...)
A doctor once told me, You will never hang
onto pictures. You can’t keep them
in your head. The pills I took
couldn’t fix that. The pills I took,
the right ones, made me forget sadness,
so I gave it up. To someone else,
a city is a different city, a world
Why is this not
To everyone, each city is a different city?
of one's invention, mythologies blank
or inhabited, histories faint
or aching. I was lucky to forget
what memory said.
I think this is a bit loose.
... a different city, [an individual
invention]; histories faint
or aching, mythologies blank
or inhabited. I was lucky
to forget...
(Blank/inhabited don't work that well I think)
Just a suggestion:
In San Francisco, in the thin coil
of my twenties, I armed myself
with the names of streets. I kept them
in a notebook. How else to know a place?
To someone else, a city is a different city,
a world of one's invention, mythologies
blank or inhabited, histories faint
or aching. I was lucky to forget
what memory said. A doctor once told me,
You will never hang onto pictures.
You can’t keep them in your head.
The pills I took couldn’t fix that. The pills
I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness,
so I gave it up.
(Purely personal, obviously, but I think offers a stronger ending.)
I still find that the first stanza doesn't draw me in.
In S2 the first line invites the response 'why don't you..?'
For me there's no similar engagement with S1.
I'm not sure about 'concrete', but I'd like a slightly
stronger sense of direction (and destination).
(And the title's still unhelpful).
Best, Knot.
PS. 'The rip of wind in my childhood' is not a phrase that travels well,
(arrives here as comedic flatulence).
Further thoughts.
...
People with problems
remember. I remembered better
than anyone without a problem,
drew the seismograph
of my days, the happy ones
tallest. This, I thought, was how time
should be measured,
by height, the bad days small
and fast.
I like the seismograph idea, though, according to google,
a seismograph is the instrument that draws a
seismogram. And given the San Francisco section...
(Preferred the Richter scale to a calendar)
What did I remember?
Moon-gulped hills. Being mad
at everyone.
I wrote emails to enemies
that I did not send.
I wrote letters, real ones,
in the scrawl I’d perfected
in chemistry class.
Don't think these lines are that successful.
N keeps saying 'I don't remember'
so the question here seems jarring.
(To what/whom is it a response?)
Is it the intention for 'moon-gulped'
to modify the meaning of 'being mad'?
I wanted to be Rimbaud.
I was too old, already,
to be Rimbaud, so who could I be? Outside,
the repetition of Rimbaud doesn't work for me,
makes for a rather 'unnatural' sentence.
Would suggest;
I wanted to be Rimbaud,
but was too old already, so who...
I read long books about Canada, the alien
continent that Frye had described
in The Bush Garden.
I read Wuthering Heights
and did not finish.
really want to add an 'it' to the end of this sentence
I rode my bike down old hills.
I sold my bike in winter,
and went home.
In San Francisco, in the thin coil
of my twenties, I armed myself
with the names of streets. I kept them
in a notebook. How else to know a place?
Armed seems such a strong word, I keep waiting
for another military attribute to appear (in the notebook
itself or in the order/formation of the lists or...)
A doctor once told me, You will never hang
onto pictures. You can’t keep them
in your head. The pills I took
couldn’t fix that. The pills I took,
the right ones, made me forget sadness,
so I gave it up. To someone else,
a city is a different city, a world
Why is this not
To everyone, each city is a different city?
of one's invention, mythologies blank
or inhabited, histories faint
or aching. I was lucky to forget
what memory said.
I think this is a bit loose.
... a different city, [an individual
invention]; histories faint
or aching, mythologies blank
or inhabited. I was lucky
to forget...
(Blank/inhabited don't work that well I think)
Just a suggestion:
In San Francisco, in the thin coil
of my twenties, I armed myself
with the names of streets. I kept them
in a notebook. How else to know a place?
To someone else, a city is a different city,
a world of one's invention, mythologies
blank or inhabited, histories faint
or aching. I was lucky to forget
what memory said. A doctor once told me,
You will never hang onto pictures.
You can’t keep them in your head.
The pills I took couldn’t fix that. The pills
I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness,
so I gave it up.
(Purely personal, obviously, but I think offers a stronger ending.)
I still find that the first stanza doesn't draw me in.
In S2 the first line invites the response 'why don't you..?'
For me there's no similar engagement with S1.
I'm not sure about 'concrete', but I'd like a slightly
stronger sense of direction (and destination).
(And the title's still unhelpful).
Best, Knot.
PS. 'The rip of wind in my childhood' is not a phrase that travels well,
(arrives here as comedic flatulence).