Red Thread(s)

"Every writer, as we know, is a monster with many heads and often without a face, the just traitor of whom Hölderlin spoke, the one who always turns away, but whose turning away may serve the maneuvers of a particular domination."
-- Maurice Blanchot, "The Great Reducers."

"When I'm awake as an author, I pass life by without a glance, sleeping as a man, and perhaps neglect the citizen in me, who would make me give up cigarettes as well as writing if I let him take shape."
--Robert Walser, "Minotaur"

Two days off and not a thing written. Between the park and the water, some reading, though... Not insignificant. & yesterday, walked along a line of beach that often reminds me of the opening sequence of Ozu's Early Summer. So little "done," and I feel I should, perhaps, worry at that. But I will not. Fine weather, fine days, and a comprtable sort of ease has set in from wch I may set to work. Cleaned my desk in a leisurely way last night.
This, in lieu of a "real" post. There are things that need attending to, not least the weeding out of this blog. Last week, two dreams involving ink: 1) a page with a line, maybe something else on it, but concentrating on the line, trying to dteremine the blackness of it; it seemed a little dusty, or purplish. 2) lookiong down at my white shirt, to see a dark stain spreading out. Perhaps about writing?-- I did laundry instead.

And today, in the park after work, one line, & another later:


what blueness obtains

hazard or will--

"The problem all year round is dusk. Summer and winter alike."
-- Marguerite Duras, Writing