Reinventing the rant

It's Freya's day and the mailbox here in TulseyTown is almost too hot to touch. Committed as I am to sharing yet more flotsam and jetsam from the stream, I bravely venture forth:

The U.S Poet Laureate Charles Wright was born today in 1935 Pickwick Dam, Tennessee.

Keillor continues, at long last, with revelations of political preferences: Out with the old, in with the young.

Many of us who are engaged with the world experience discouragement regularly. . . it’s all too easy to let ourselves spiral downward. The first step in pulling yourself up is to notice and acknowledge when you’re going unconscious. – Pema Chödrön (new link)

One can't speak of consiousness without considering the unconsious, perhaps Freudian perspectives of Id, Ego, and Superego – on full display in this fabulous interview (by Mary Elizabeth Williams) with Eddie Izzard on the eve of another reinvention of him/her self.

– from Southern Cross, by Charles Wright. Random House. 1981,

It’s 1936, in Tennessee. I’m one
And spraying the dead grass with a hose.
The curtains blow in and out.

And then it’s not. I’m not and they’re not.

Or it’s 1941 in a brown suit, or ’53 in its white shoes,
Overlay after overlay tumbled and brought back,
As meaningless as the sea would be
           if the sea could remember its waves . . .