Sight

A couple days ago, I broke my glasses at the place where the metal arm on the frame joins the frame surrounding the lens. Because of this, and because I've not been able to fix them or replace them yet, I wear either a very loose pair of glasses (only one arm on the right ear) or wear an old pair with deep scratches in one lense. Since this older pair is sturdier and will not fall off, I usually wear them outside my apartment, though it gives me a bit of a headache looking through them. Needless to say, I've not been happy with this.

Writing often arises from a particular experience or thought or later reflection on one of these. Like my current glasses, observation of these experiences is usually imperfect. The brain fails to remember points in the picture. If I went on a walk, I can not remember every color of what I pass. If in conversation, I can not remember every word. So there are gaps to fill or assume.

As to the belief that if you pay attention you remember: do you remember everything from biology or geometric axioms or when the sunset was or what time x is...?

All things decay and misperception is common. I value Notley's demand for honesty, clarity in purpose, openness, and freshness in her essay Thinking and Poetry.

I sometimes want to label Alma or those in it by saying, she is such and such and she is such and such, and then I resist this and resist coming to a firm and singular conclusion. The doors are still open, even if knobs or hinges or whatever are broken at times.