The Valley Below

Translation, from mid. 14th century: the carrying of the bones of a saint from one reliquary to another. And the more familiar definition: the carrying of the meaning of a text from one language to another. From Latin translatio, which can mean both. I pause on that, the thought of carrying bones.

How awful when you’re eating dessert and in the middle of sweetness, the flavor of garlic. Keeping clothes in the shopping cart for months and you can’t convince yourself it’s worth buying anything, watching them go out of stock. Secrets you can’t share though they’re the only things worth saying.

Early morning boys (2/3).

Stumbled across some old voicemail messages from a time of upheaval in my life, digital land mines or ephemeral treasures, the voice of E from when we first met, of my grandmother who has since passed away, a few best left unlistened to and forgotten. It’s ok to decline this weird memory machine.

But when in love, all bets are off.

“I’m actually a rationalist. Everything I do is rational,” she said and shrugged.

It was her horizon, her definition, her wilderness.

Early morning boys (1/3).

He brings me salak, rambutan, and langsep before he leaves. I braid his hair. He opens green coconuts, whispers a prayer over each one and pours the sweet water into glass jars. I pack his toothbrush and find him some socks. I remind him to sleep and will tell him again, night after night, to sleep.

Heavy earth light.

Odysseus escapes Scylla by becoming Scylla. He beats monsters by becoming the monster. Odysseus and Achilles show two different and monstrous sides of the poet’s work. The special thing is that Odysseus is a hero for it, Achilles is a hero for it. Tragic poets cleanse (catharsis) while Homer harmonizes. Homer shows us these two human monsters, shows us the world-bending (and world-breaking) beauty of human monstrosity, challenging us, we non-heroes, we normies, to see ourselves reflected, if we can, unpunished, unpurged. Of course, the poet herself becomes both monsters at once. That is daemonic work, that is the work of the Muse.

I try not to write “meta” entries i.e. blog about blogging especially the vicissitudes of it (platforms, history, future, “reach”, etc.) because if I start then I cannot stop. My desire is not to think about it at all. I will not (by choice) engage the Scylla. At least, not before coffee.

Stranger sunrise.

Everything we eat from bule restos here in Bali we put sriracha on, we have to or it doesn’t taste good. I didn’t used to need hot sauce on everything but all the foreigner-geared food tastes bland to me, I’m not sure if I changed or if the food changed, I think maybe I changed, or it could be both.

Lowest tide.

Started reading Bookshops & Bonedust by Travis Baldree. 📚 Looking for some literary xanax as E visits Java this week. Home alone with cats and a cup of peppermint tea during rainy season reading. Enjoyed the first book, so far this one (weird word usage?) has inner critic tweaking, hope it settles.

Ahh I spent years thinking the Indonesian word for “leak” is spelled “pojor” and today I learned it’s actually “bocor” and now I know that I know nothing.

Related: I (over-)use the words bocor (leak) and macet (traffic) to describe figuratively a broad range of situations (cf. poros and aporia).

Finished reading 2312 by Kim Stanley Robinson.📚 Expansive and thoughtful portrait of a post-Earth, post-capitalist artist. The evolution of art, history, psyche as ecosystems, animal/human bodies become products of human making. Replete with planetary science + extra-terran topographical poetry.

Blue sunset chill.

Pale sunrise.