the habit of being

A vast space for looking at. Openness. Light. In a wordless space, a poet comes to speak about silence. The gap between the original and the copy. The gap between the original and the translation. The intrique of words that stop themselves. In this vastness I am free and empty. I wish I could come here every day to write. To write, to write. Forcing myself to write I feel, for once, calm, free of blemishes.

It is steaming hot out, and I am on the train back from a factory which was translated into a contemporary art museum. Simple works, big experience. I’d like to curl up and sleep in the interior of a torqued elipse. I’d like to dream silent poems.

Every day, I remind myself of my own poverty. Such damaging lies, for I am not poor, I am only rich enough to live as I do. The way that I live isn’t so very bad, is it? I sleep late, I study. Yes, I have to work, but there are so many people who work and do nothing else. I complain that my work takes away time I could be spending on something else. But at least the concept of a something else exists for me.