Red Thread(s)

D.'s response to my remark below: "How do you know the river's not some sort of eddy itself? The leaf's moving; it could be quite happy where it is."

I assume you've seen a stream where an eddy has formed off to the side, trapping a leaf, wch, though in constant movement, is impeded from moving downstream by the shuffle of water. Hey, look at me! I'm a leaf!
That being said, I shd note that there are three half-finished blog entries in my notebook wch need to be finished and transferred to the virtual world, and I've been meaning to write a little about poet William Bronk. It was a Bronk book, All of What We Loved, that I brought on the bus with me today, and there was a leaf pressed between the pages. It would be too neat and tidy to say that it was facing this poem, but you can believe that if you like.


Not Defined

Immanuel Kant, my teacher said,
thought the human mind couldn't conceive of the all,
the universe, as finite or infinite:
by each idea the other is dissolved.

That's my memory of it, probably wrong.

Did he think a mind more adequate would do?
A limitation in those ideas themselves?

I need hardly dispute him either way.

-- William Bronk

It's summer: blah... blah... blah. From under the sea of lassitude, a tiny voice (muffled) saying "you should write more. Say something. You haven't posted in weeks." But my all-purpose excuse / reply is simply "Sorry; can't be bothered. I'm busy. Reading Proust." Wch I, indeed, am. Finally. With a certain degree of lassitude, letting it take its time.
Anyhow, just read this bit in an interview with Richard Pryor from Monday's Guardian, and thought to pass it along:

Al Murray: What do you think of critics?

RP: I never met anybody who said when they were a kid, "I wanna grow up and be a critic."