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<p>Either way, it did not last, and by the time singing had taken over, he had ceased to exist in any way meaningful to me. As I flowed into choir, he flowed out of my life and, as far as I can tell, slipped between the atoms of this world and passed from being. It did not matter.</p>
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<p>And so the anxiety meds just </p>
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<p>And this was the point I understood that composition as a business was a frightening prospect</p>
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<p>And so if we have left the first theme in the tonic behind, is it not fitting that we start talking about dystonia? If music was the thing that held me steady, my theme A in the tonic, then perhaps the dominating chaotic force in life was my inability to stay still, my theme B in the dominant.</p>
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<p>On how people expect composers work when they don&rsquo;t know anything about it.</p>
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</ul>
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<p>I wish I could tell you that I hear music in all of the sounds of the every day world, but I don&rsquo;t. All I do is feel things.</p>
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<p>I had forgotten about the birds until recently, but every time I feel that ecstasy &mdash; that ekstasis &mdash; I am pitch. I am tar. I am sticky with apology. I am the living embodiment of &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry&rdquo;.</p>
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<p>The love was mine. The frustrations were mine. They were almost of a necessity mine to enjoy on my own. My parents didn&rsquo;t enjoy it. I don&rsquo;t know whether my band conductors enjoyed it. I certainly never got very good at it, but I was happy to be bad at something I had picked out for myself.</p>
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<p>Or maybe I just really like office supplies.</p>
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<p>I was not good at what I was doing, and I probably thought I was better than I actually was, but I was also learning as best I could. How could I not? I kept trying to be something I wasn&rsquo;t. I kept trying to be more than I was. How could I not try and outdo who I used to be?</p>
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<p>And the audience applauds and cheers with a startling suddenness, and you notice that as you settle back down to the risers and the audience settles back down into the seats, you never quite touch the ground again. Not for weeks. It&rsquo;s ages before you can feel the concrete or carpet beneath your bare feet again.</p>
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<p>But he never told me why.</p>
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<h1>Zk | 003</h1>
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<h1 id="ioan-balan-2346">Ioan Bălan &mdash; 2346</h1>
<p>Ioan and May speculate on how True Name must be taking it locally/Pollux, suggest Codrin&rsquo;s grand gesture for Dear being bringing the polycule to the DMZ, more on stability re: Odists.</p>
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<p><em>&ldquo;But, my dear, do be watchful. There will be two Odists on that mission, and they will share in some of my trepidation.&rdquo;</em> It took eir hand in its paw and gave the back of it an affectionate lick. The gesture seemed to be one designed to minimize the anxiety in the statement, but eirs or Dears, ey could not tell. <em>&ldquo;They share that same trauma. Be watchful and remember what I said: even True Name has emotions, even she will be affected.&rdquo;</em></p>
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<h1>Zk | prologue</h1>
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<h1 id="rj-brewster-2114">RJ Brewster &mdash; 2114</h1>
<p>There was some draw, some appeal to Dr. Ramirez for RJ. At first, ey suspected that it was the quiet intensity of her confidence, the way she moved through the world with a hunger for knowledge that was at all times colored by the light of the desire to do right by the world as a whole. Then, ey thought that it might simply be that she was a good person. She was the one who believed hard enough and strong enough to follow up on the lost. She was the one who had actually tried, had actually moved forward at a pace that meant progress on the case.</p>
<p>Recently, ey had been thinking that it was something more abstract than that.</p>
<p>Ey had been lost for something beyond an eternity, for &lsquo;eternity&rsquo; implied the existence of time, or at least a form of time that actually meant something. Ey had been lost for a day longer than forever, and had ey been lost for only hours, as Sasha had, it would have been longer still. Even then, the word &lsquo;longer&rsquo; held far too much savor. It burned in the sinuses and left eir eyes stinging with tears.</p>
<p>She had been the first one in more than forever that ey had seen. She had been the one who broke through the wall of eir solipsistic existence and encouraged em to reengage with the world. As the orbits of eir life grew smaller and smaller, they had collapsed into a wandering figure-eight around Sasha, the one who made em complete, and Carter, the one who tied em to reality.</p>
<p>And so it was that, even beyond the meetings and interviews, beyond the panels and studies, ey found emself remaining in touch with her. Once a week or two, ey had make the long walk from eir flat down to the cluster of UCL buildings and wait until she was free for lunch or dinner, or, had ey yet again forgot the meaning of time, wait for her to arrive at work early in the morning so that they could grab coffee together.</p>
<p>She had not questioned it at all. Even that first time, after ey had hunted down her office in the UCL directory and arrived, unannounced, outside of it to wait awkwardly until she pulled back from her rig. She had simply smiled, shaken eir hand, and they had gone out for an afternoon cup of coffee with no further discussion. It had simply become the thing that they did every now and then. </p>
<p>Perhaps that was why ey liked her? Maybe.</p>
<p>Today, at lunch, ey joined Ramirez and two of her coworkers, a Prakash Das and an Avery Wilkins. Vietnamese had been the order of the day, and each of them had consoled em in turn about the loss of eir dear Priscilla, the cat who had been the only other grounding factor in eir life these last two years. A sudden loss of appetite, and then a sudden loss of life, and now ey needed the comfort of friends &mdash; or whatever it was that Carter had become &mdash; and some noise other than quiet jazz and London streets.</p>
<p>To this, ey had simply raised eir cup of tea and nodded to them, saying, &ldquo;To deny the end is to deny all beginnings.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Delphic, as ever,&rdquo; Prakash said, though his grin and the lift of his own glass took any sting out of the words.</p>
<p>Ey smiled, though ey could feel exhaustion tugging at eir cheeks. Ey had slept, ey knew, but did not remember when. &ldquo;Oh, trust me, there is plenty more where that came from.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where does it come from?&rdquo; Carter asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not sure.&rdquo; Ey sipped at eir tea, still too hot to drink comfortably. &ldquo;Whatever wellspring that was unstoppered in&hellip;in there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And that&rsquo;s stuck around?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ey nodded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Think you&rsquo;ll ever turn it into something?&rdquo; Avery grinned to em. &ldquo;You know, write a book. Something like that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had not thought of that. I do not know that I could make a plot out of what feels like millions of words in a rock tumbler.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Even infinite monkeys,&rdquo; Carter said, as she always did whenever the topic came up. &ldquo;Either way, you look thrashed, RJ. You sleeping okay?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No. Maybe. I do not know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Perhaps sensing some emotion deeper than exhaustion laying beneath the equivocation, the table fell silent, and ey once again looked out the window into the greying afternoon, thumb-tip tapping along each of the contacts on the middle joints of eir fingers.</p>
<p>Once the food arrived, the mood loosened up, and ey was able to smile and laugh and take part in the conversation, and even managed to apologize for being a damper on it only twice.</p>
<p>Spring rolls and phở occupied their attention for a while, then, and they ate in silence except for the occasional &lsquo;good soup&rsquo; and other such nothing compliments.</p>
<p>The time neared one, whatever that meant, and they settled up the bill and took the remainder of their conversation outside, hands stuffed in pockets while clouds of steam preceded them.</p>
<p>More laughter, more companionship. More warmth, despite the cold.</p>
<p><em>Perhaps this is why,</em> ey thought. <em>Perhaps Carter and all of those she has introduced to me can add at least a little bit of warmth into the winter of my life.</em></p>
<p>No, no, must not think such things. Ey had made eir decision, had ey not?</p>
<p>At the door to the building where the three worked, they all exchanged hugs, another bright spark of warmth in the cold afternoon, enough to carry em back home. Empty home, where ey could listen to more jazz and the distinct lack of purring. Empty home where ey could stare at eir rig and dare emself to delve in, if only to see if Sasha was about after work.</p>
<p>Perhaps sleep.</p>
<p>Ey made it about a block away before ey heard the sound of jogging behind em, and stepped over closer to the wall to let the jogger pass. The sound slowed, however, and ey was greeted once more by Prakash.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hey RJ, mind if I walk with you for a bit?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ey frowned. &ldquo;Sure. Why? Do you not have work?&rdquo;</p>
<p>He shrugged. &ldquo;I do, but I&rsquo;m getting sick of being cooped up. Begged an additional hour off to just get out for a bit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alright.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A silence stretched for a few minutes before Prakash said, &ldquo;Nice day, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; ey said, laughing. &ldquo;It is cold and gray. My cat is dead, my job is gone, and my two friends are someone I can only meet in a place I am terrified to go and a researcher of something that is no longer a problem.&rdquo; <em>Memory is a mirror of hammered silver,</em> the litany continued. Ey hoped silently. <em>A weapon against the waking world.</em> &ldquo;Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory: a clarifying agent against the sun. Sorry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Prakash nodded, as though this was some sort of normal conversation. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re okay, RJ. Are you doing alright for cash?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ey rubbed away unwelcome tears and nodded. &ldquo;Enough for another six months here, and then I need to either find a new job or move back to America. My parents have offered&ndash;&ldquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would you be interested in a job offer?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;From the university?&rdquo;</p>
<p>He shook his head. &ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where then? I did not know you worked anywhere else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Work is probably the wrong word, here,&rdquo; Prakash said, grinning. &ldquo;But, I mean, if you don&rsquo;t mind heading out of the WF for a while, I might have something for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Part of RJ stopped up short &mdash; though not, ey noted dispassionately, eir body &mdash; and ey blinked rapidly down towards the ground. This was a new, strangely shaped bit of information. There was no opening within eir mind that would fit it perfectly, so ey carefully set it aside. &ldquo;And what would this job entail? I am wary of sims.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course. Minimal work on the &lsquo;net.&rdquo; He seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged. &ldquo;Well, no work on the &lsquo;net, actually, but minimal work in-sim.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ey nodded, waited for Prakash to continue.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Carter was kind enough to provide us with some extra information. Michelle&rsquo;s core dump from when she got lost, yours from the theater sim that the techs were careless enough to leave around. Some people I&rsquo;m&hellip;not working with have been digging through those and, in combination with the testimonies of the lost, come up with some interesting hypothes&ndash;&ldquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A way back?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The intensity with which ey replied startled the researcher, who held up his hands defensively. &ldquo;Sorry, RJ, if I overstepped&ndash;&ldquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, sorry,&rdquo; ey said. &ldquo;I did not mean to shout. If it is a way back, I will say yes. If it is a way to &lsquo;fix&rsquo; whatever I have become, I will say no and do not wish to waste your time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Prakash relaxed and shook his head. &ldquo;I see. You&rsquo;ve mentioned not wanting to lose what you have. I wouldn&rsquo;t have offered if that was on the table. They&rsquo;re not really thinking of a way back, no, but maybe a way forward. Use what you taught us to find &mdash; or make &mdash; somewhere new.&rdquo;</p>
<p>At this, ey really did stop up short. &ldquo;What do you mean, &lsquo;somewhere new&rsquo;?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Arms races have fallen out of fashion. It&rsquo;s not really considered fashionable to stockpile weapons or anything anymore.&rdquo;</p>
<p>RJ blinked, nonplussed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Technology, however, brings with it a status of its own.&rdquo; Prakash smiled, neither pityingly nor happily. Dreamily. &ldquo;So if, as you say, dreams are the plate-glass atop memory, and if, as you&rsquo;ve said in the past, getting lost put you in a mirrored cage, then these are bits of information related to technology. If one could drop the cage metaphor and set up a mirrored world, well, that would be quite the status symbol.&rdquo;</p>
<p>RJ stood a while in thought, searching Prakash&rsquo;s face until the man averted his eyes, even past then. &ldquo;What would be required of me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing, for now. Just to stay in touch. Eventually, though, we&rsquo;ll get you somewhere we can dig into research and after that, you&rsquo;ll be one of the founders of something big. Really big.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The words came in a torrent, then, and with such an intensity that ey had to clutch at Prakash&rsquo;s arm for support. &ldquo;The flow of prophecy climbs up through the years, winter upon winter upon winter, and compels the future to do its bidding. The prophet is only a pipe that sounds when the past&hellip;shit. I am sorry. All of that to say yes, I am sorry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Once the shock of the onrush of words wore off, Prakash nodded, smiling cautiously. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s okay, RJ. Like I said, nothing needs to be done right now. And I trust that you know not to mention this to anyone. Someone else will talk to Michelle about it. Talk to each of the lost, I mean. When things are lined up, we can go for another walk after coffee or something. Sound good?</p>
<p>Ey swallowed dryly, nodded. &ldquo;Thank you. I will hold on until then.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They started walking again, the researcher explaining that he really did need the air, since all that waited for him was an office sim.</p>
<p>RJ did not mind. What sadness that dug at em from Prisca&rsquo;s passing had been blunted, softened by the prospect of something new. Something ahead of em. Something to look forward to that did not bring with it more exhaustion, more words.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; Prakash said thoughtfully. &ldquo;I know it&rsquo;s not really intentional or anything, but you&rsquo;re not wrong.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mm?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;About prophecy, I mean. Just over two years since you got back and here you are, being invited to compel the future to do your bidding using what you learned.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ey laughed, earnest and true. &ldquo;I suppose so. I was going to say &ldquo;the prophet is only a pipe that sounds when the past demands it&rdquo;, and given that I cannot seem to live in this world anymore, that demand is getting to be overwhelming.&rdquo;</p>
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<h1>Zk | Seasons</h1>
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<p><a href="notes.html">Notes</a></p>
<blockquote>
<p>As such, every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader&rsquo;s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different &mdash; not merely another &mdash; reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.</p>
<p>[&hellip;] the poem continues in a state of restless change. (Weinberger, pg. 46)</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When I studied music, back in university, back as I was starting to get into software engineering, I found the dichotomy surrounding repeatability between these two subjects self-evident. There is a special curse for software bugs that are not easily repeated: Heisenbugs<sup id="fnref:heisenbugs"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:heisenbugs">1</a></sup>. On the other hand, though, there <em>is</em> no way to ever perform the same song twice, even for the same singers, the same instrumentalists, the same conductors. Even with the same audience, that time any time must perforce pass in so time-bound an art means that those who hear the song </p>
<p>A year spirals up.</p>
<p>A day, a week, a month, they all spiral, for any one Sunday is like the previous and the next shall be much the same, but the you who experiences the differing Sundays is different. It is a spiral, proceeding steadfastly onward. A day is a spiral, with each morning much the same as the one before and the one after. A month, following the cycle of the moon</p>
<p>But a year, in particular, spirals up. It carries embedded within it a certain combination of pattern, count, and duration that delineates our lives better than any other cyclical unit of time. Yes, a day is divided into night and day, and those liminal dusks and dawns, but there are <em>so many of them</em>. There are so many days in a life, and there are so many in a year that to see the spiral within them does not come as easily.</p>
<p>Our years are delineated by the seasons, though, and the count of them is so few, and the duration long enough that we can run up against that first scent of snow late in the autumn and immediately be kicked down one level of the spiral in our memories. What were we doing the last time we smelled that non-scent? What about the time before?</p>
<h2 id="spring">Spring</h2>
<div class="verse">The seasonal storms have poured upon the grassy flat,
The leafless stalks abound like thirsty mouths.
Puddles form and soon are swarmed with little fish,
And all the arid life has fled despair.
And here, wrapped in rain, lies the oldest soul,
The changes wrack his bones with painful cold.
His skin is like the sky at night, as many scars
Have marked his hide as there are glinting stars.
At once he feels his lungs become bereft of breath,
His daughter nudges him, to no effect.
She walks away rememb&rsquo;ring days they stalked the plains,
Within her womb there grows a golden bloom.</div>
<p>(Dwale, pg. 26)</p>
<h3 id="the-poem">The poem</h3>
<h3 id="analysis-and-parallels">Analysis and parallels</h3>
<h3 id="the-song">The song</h3>
<h3 id="in-life">In life</h3>
<h2 id="summer">Summer</h2>
<div class="verse">Summer, season of hot insomnia,
That much never seems to change at all.
Laying awake in the red desert night,
I shape forest from shade and wait for fall.
Ten years now gone, and who thought I would miss
Cricket songs, cicadas and katydids?
Then I&rsquo;d gladly have grabbed a big hammer,
Smashed them flat as Pinocchio&rsquo;s conscience.
Testing palisades of clocks and yardsticks,
No advent waits for the restive dreamer.
I bandage my tattered, bitten left hand
And shed the smoke rings on my cloven finger.</div>
<p>(Dwale, pg. 8)</p>
<h3 id="the-poem_1">The poem</h3>
<h3 id="analysis-and-parallels_1">Analysis and parallels</h3>
<h3 id="the-song_1">The song</h3>
<h3 id="in-life_1">In life</h3>
<h2 id="autumn">Autumn</h2>
<p><em>Face down in the leaves</em></p>
<div class="verse">We crawl through moist humus like millipedes,
Feasting on dirt and dead, crumbling leaves
While striped skies cycle through violet hues,
While time&rsquo;s kisses take the shape of a bruise.
Endeavors wear the warmer years away,
Reduced at last to heaven&rsquo;s dormant clay.
Alive, I lick brambles until my tongue
Tears, despairing ever being so young.
I think of you. I don&rsquo;t smile when I do.
A moment more and then the day is gone,
In evening grey, we mourn the vanished dawn,
And so on, maybe waiting for someone
To come drag us back to where we belong.
In dreams we interred, with your pure throat bare,
I know your breath, your jasmine-scented air.
Alive, a god to mites and mud-daubers.
The harvestmen scuttle and bob onwards.</div>
<p>(Dwale, pg. 9)</p>
<h3 id="the-poem_2">The poem</h3>
<h3 id="analysis-and-parallels_2">Analysis and parallels</h3>
<h3 id="the-song_2">The song</h3>
<h3 id="in-life_2">In life</h3>
<h2 id="winter">Winter</h2>
<p><em>Dirt Garden</em></p>
<div class="verse">My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,
Alive and wild, more so than tended rows
In growth, has died. I killed them a little,
The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.
&ldquo;Time and time, I commit these small murders,
To whose benefit?&rdquo; I ask why and wonder,
The scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.
If I indwelt some luring scrap of land
Far from here, secluded, my own to call,
I would welcome these same weeds, one and all,
To plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,
Just they and I, with no need of reproof,
And thank the thorns for making a hale fence,
The compost for being my winter blanket.</div>
<p>(Dwale, pg. 5)</p>
<h3 id="the-poem_3">The poem</h3>
<h3 id="analysis-and-parallels_3">Analysis and parallels</h3>
<h3 id="the-song_3">The song</h3>
<h3 id="in-life_3">In life</h3>
<h2 id="citations">Citations</h2>
<div class="codehilite"><pre><span></span><code><span class="nv">@book</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">dwale</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Face Down in the Leaves&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Dwale&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">publisher</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Weasel Press&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">place</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Manvel, TX&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;2019&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@book</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">weinberger_paz_2016</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Nineteen ways of looking at Wang Wei: (with more ways)&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Weinberger, Eliot and Paz, Octavio&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">publisher</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;New Directions Paperbook&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">place</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;New York, NY&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;2016&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@book</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">graves_poems</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Collected poems, 1965&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Robert Graves&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">publisher</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Cassell &amp; Company Ltd&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">place</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;London, UK&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;1965&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@article</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">graves_intercession</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Intercession in Late October&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Robert Graves&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">journal</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Poetry&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">volume</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;71&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">number</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;1&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;1947&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">pages</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;23&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@book</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">issa</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;The Autumn Wind: a selection of poems by Issa&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Issa, Kobayashi and Mackenzie, Lewis (Trans.)&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">publisher</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;John Murray (Publishers) Ltd&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">place</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;London, UK&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;1957&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@misc</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">blackbird</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Stevens, Wallace&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">howpublished</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{\</span><span class="n">url</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="nl">https</span><span class="p">:</span><span class="o">//</span><span class="n">en</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">wikisource</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">org</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">wiki</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">Thirteen_Ways_of_Looking_at_a_Blackbird</span><span class="err">}}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;1917&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">note</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Accessed Feb 11, 2021&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@misc</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">pale_she</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Pale She&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Scott-Clary, Madison&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">howpublished</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{\</span><span class="n">url</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="nl">https</span><span class="p">:</span><span class="o">//</span><span class="n">writing</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">drab</span><span class="o">-</span><span class="n">makyo</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">com</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">poetry</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">pale</span><span class="o">-</span><span class="n">she</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="err">}}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;2020&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="err">`</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">note</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Accessed Feb 11, 2021&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@book</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">eigengrau</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{</span><span class="nl">Eigengrau</span><span class="p">:</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="n">Poems</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="mi">2015</span><span class="o">--</span><span class="mi">2020</span><span class="err">}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Scott-Clary, Madison&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">publisher</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;self published&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">place</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Everett, WA&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;2020&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">pages</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{</span><span class="mi">68</span><span class="o">--</span><span class="mi">71</span><span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@misc</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">dwale_haiku</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{\</span><span class="n">emph</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">untitled</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="n">haiku</span><span class="err">}}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Dwale&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">howpublished</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{\</span><span class="n">url</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="nl">https</span><span class="p">:</span><span class="o">//</span><span class="n">twitter</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">com</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">ThornAppleCider</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">status</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="mi">1009137826250625029</span><span class="err">}}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="nf">year</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;2018&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">note</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Accessed Feb 11, 2021&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="nv">@misc</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="n">esch</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">title</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Winter&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">author</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Esch, Edward&quot;</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">howpublished</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="err">{\</span><span class="n">url</span><span class="err">{</span><span class="nl">https</span><span class="p">:</span><span class="o">//</span><span class="n">ericwhitacre</span><span class="p">.</span><span class="n">com</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">music</span><span class="o">-</span><span class="k">catalog</span><span class="o">/</span><span class="n">winter</span><span class="err">}}</span><span class="p">,</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="w"> </span><span class="n">note</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="o">=</span><span class="w"> </span><span class="ss">&quot;Accessed Feb 10, 2021&quot;</span><span class="w"></span>
<span class="err">}</span><span class="w"></span>
</code></pre></div>
<h2 id="notes">Notes</h2>
<div class="footnote">
<hr />
<ol>
<li id="fn:heisenbugs">
<p>From the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, which, glibly, states that observation influences measurements. A bug that you cannot reproduce when you are watching simply must share some of these attributes, but they never do.&#160;<a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:heisenbugs" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">&#8617;</a></p>
</li>
</ol>
</div>
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<h1>Zk | notes</h1>
</header>
<article class="content">
<p>From <em>Face Down in the Leaves</em>, 2019, Weasel Press.</p>
<hr />
<p>p.26</p>
<div class="verse">The seasonal storms have poured upon the grassy flat,
The leafless stalks abound like thirsty mouths.
Puddles form and soon are swarmed with little fish,
And all the arid life has fled despair.
And here, wrapped in rain, lies the oldest soul,
The changes wrack his bones with painful cold.
His skin is like the sky at night, as many scars
Have marked his hide as there are glinting stars.
At once he feels his lungs become bereft of breath,
His daughter nudges him, to no effect.
She walks away rememb&rsquo;ring days they stalked the plains,
Within her womb there grows a golden bloom.</div>
<div class="codehilite"><pre><span></span><code><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="c1">-- u - u -u - u- u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
<span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
</code></pre></div>
<hr />
<p>p.8</p>
<div class="verse">Summer, season of hot insomnia,
That much never seems to change at all.
Laying awake in the red desert night,
I shape forest from shade and wait for fall.
Ten years now gone, and who thought I would miss
Cricket songs, cicadas and katydids?
Then I&rsquo;d gladly have grabbed a big hammer,
Smashed them flat as Pinocchio&rsquo;s conscience.
Testing palisades of clocks and yardsticks,
No advent waits for the restive dreamer.
I bandage my tattered, bitten left hand
And shed the smoke rings on my cloven finger.</div>
<hr />
<p><em>Face down in the leaves</em></p>
<p>p.9</p>
<div class="verse">We crawl through moist humus like millipedes,
Feasting on dirt and dead, crumbling leaves
While striped skies cycle through violet hues,
While time&rsquo;s kisses take the shape of a bruise.
Endeavors wear the warmer years away,
Reduced at last to heaven&rsquo;s dormant clay.
Alive, I lick brambles until my tongue
Tears, despairing ever being so young.
I think of you. I don&rsquo;t smile when I do.
A moment more and then the day is gone,
In evening grey, we mourn the vanished dawn,
And so on, maybe waiting for someone
To come drag us back to where we belong.
In dreams we interred, with your pure throat bare,
I know your breath, your jasmine-scented air.
Alive, a god to mites and mud-daubers.
The harvestmen scuttle and bob onwards.</div>
<hr />
<p><em>Dirt Garden</em></p>
<p>p.5</p>
<div class="verse">My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,
Alive and wild, more so than tended rows
In growth, has died. I killed them a little,
The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.
&ldquo;Time and time, I commit these small murders,
To whose benefit?&rdquo; I ask why and wonder,
The scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.
If I indwelt some luring scrap of land
Far from here, secluded, my own to call,
I would welcome these same weeds, one and all,
To plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,
Just they and I, with no need of reproof,
And thank the thorns for making a hale fence,
The compost for being my winter blanket.</div>
<hr />
<h2 id="analysis">Analysis</h2>
<h3 id="related">Related</h3>
<p>&ldquo;Winter&rdquo; by Eric Whitacre, text by Edward Esch - https://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/winter</p>
<div class="verse">I.
The snow is falling,
sleeping,
whispering,
dreaming of water.
II.
Gold, silver, iron, stone;
pure and gentle, silently melting,
the sun sings softly through the quiet ice.
III.
A single snowflake awakens,
shimmers,
glows,
watches the world with weary eyes,
darkens,
settles,
and disappears.</div>
<p>From &ldquo;Mid-Winter Songs&rdquo; by Morten Lauridsen, text by Robert Graves - https://genius.com/albums/Morten-lauridsen/Mid-winter-songs</p>
<div class="verse"><em>Lament for Pasiphaë</em>
pg.206
Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
My eye, dazzled with tears, shall dazzle yours
Conjuring you to shine and not to move
You, sun, and I all afternoon have laboured
Beneath a dewless and oppressive cloud&ndash;
A fleece now gilded with our commen grief
That this must be a night without a moon
Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
Faithless she was not: she was very woman
Smiling with dire impartiality
Sovereign, with heart unmatched, adored of men
Until Spring&rsquo;s cuckoo with bedraggled plumes
Tempted her pity and her truth betrayed
Then she who shone for all resigned her being
And this must be a night without a moon
Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
<em>Like Snow</em>
pg.143
She, then, like snow in a dark night
Fell secretly. And the world waked
With dazzling of the drowsy eye
So that some muttered &lsquo;Too much light,&rsquo;
And drew the curtains close
Like snow, warmer than fingers feared
And to soil friendly;
Holding the histories of the night
In yet unmelted tracks
<em>She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep</em>
pg.173
She tells her love while half asleep
In the dark hours
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow
Despite the falling snow
<em>Mid-Winter Waking</em>
pg.165
Stirring suddenly from long hibernation
I knew myself once more a poet
Guarded by timeless prinicipalities
Against the worm of death, this hillside haunting;
And presently dared open both my eyes
O gracious, lofty, shone against from under
Back-of-the-mind-far clouds like towers;
And you, sudden warm airs that blow
Before the expected season of new blossom
While sheep still gnaw at roots and lambless go&ndash;
Be witness that on waking, this mid-winter
I foudn her hand in mine laid closely
Who hsall watch out the Spring with me
We stared in silence all around us
But found no winter anywhere to see
<em>Intercession in Late October</em>
Poetry vol.71 no.1 - October 1947 - pg.23 - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=24836
How hard the year dies: no frost yet
On drifts of yellow sand Midas reclines
Fearless of moaning reed or sullen wave
Firm and fragrant still the brambleberries
On ivy-bloom butterflies wag
Spare him a little longer, Crone
For his clean hands and love-submissive heart</div>
<p>Haiku by Issa - https://archive.org/details/autumnwindselect0000koba/page/10/mode/2up</p>
<div class="verse">Heedless that the dews
mark the passing of our day &mdash;
we bind ourselves to others
(Mi no ue no tsuyu to mo shirade hodashikeri - p.11 - spring)
O winds of autumn!
Nearer we draw to the Buddha
As the years advance
(Akikaze yo hotoke ni chikaki toshi no hodo - p.11 - autumn)
Floating weeds,
as blow the winds of the floating world &mdash;
drifting and drifting
(Ukigusa ya ukiyo no kaze no iu mama ni - p.18 - spring)
A blessing indeed &mdash;
This snow on the bed-quilt,
This, too, is from the pure land
(Arigata ya fusama no yuki mo Jodo yori - p.46 - winter)
Is this it, then,
My last resting place &mdash;
Five feet of snow!
(Kore ga maa tsui no sumika ka yuki goshaku - p.37 - winter)
On the hill of summer
Stands the slender maiden flower
In a solitary humor
(Natsuyama ya / Hitori kigen no / Ominaeshi - p.65 - summer)
Red dragon-fly &mdash;
He&rsquo;s the one that likes the evening,
Or so it seems.
(Akatombo / Kare mo yubo ga / Suki ja yara - p.65 - autumn)
Heedless that the tolling bell
Marks our own closing day &mdash;
We take this evening&rsquo;s cool
(Mi no ue no kane tomo shirade yusuzumi - p.39 - summer)</div>
<p>Some underlines in <em>19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei</em> by Eliot Weinberger, 2016, New Directions Publishing Corporation.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Great poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>p.3</p>
<blockquote>
<p>In its way a spiritual exercise, translation is dependent on the dissolution of the translator&rsquo;s ego: an absolute humility toward the text.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>p.20</p>
<blockquote>
<p>As such, every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader&rsquo;s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different &mdash; not merely another &mdash; reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.</p>
<p>[&hellip;] the poem continues in a state of restless change.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;To Autumn&rdquo; verse 1 by Keats</p>
<div class="verse">Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss&rsquo;d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o&rsquo;er-brimm&rsquo;d their clammy cells.</div>
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