FRIDAY NIGHT CONSTELLATION

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Tonight I'm staying in with a book. Peter Hoeg's The Quiet Girl. I've loved him since his first novel, The Borderliners, about a boarding school in Iceland and the young boys who survived it. I think I even tried to write something about the boy sneaking out to the shed to steal gasoline and set the school aflame. . .  swans on fire, swans of ash, or some such nonsense. 

Haven't been able to put away my September Reads. They're littering my desk. I guess I'm not finished. Or they're not finished with me. 

Re-read Cormac McCarthy's The Road

Thom Gunn's Boss Cupid

Frank Bidart's Watching the Spring Festival

Yusef Komunyakaa's Warhorses

Antonio Lobo Antunes' What Can I Do When Everything's Burning

Jenn Currin's Hagiography

Jean Cocteau's Les Enfants Terribles

Adam Zagajewski's Eternal Enemies

Jaime Sabines' Tarumba

Valzhyna Mort's Factory of Tears

A chapter from Georges Batailles' The Absence of Myth

and one from Julia Kristeva's Powers of Horror

They're a pretty noisy crowd here. Maybe in the next few nights I'll take on a few of them so I can put them away. Constellation of poems, lines, feelings. . .   "This is how dead men haunt their murderers dreams."

Windy here, off the beach. 

Up in the leaves, a storm. Not really, 

just the eucalyptus acting like the sea.

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