from My Life: Reason looks for two, then arranges it from there

Reason looks for Where I woke and was awake, in the two, then room fitting the wall, withdrawn, I arranges it had my desk and thus my corner. from there While waiting, waltz. The soles of our boots wear thin, but the soles of our feet grow thick. The difference between “he presented his argument” and “they had an argument.”   I still respond to the academic year, the sound of the school bell, the hot Wednesday morn- ing after Labor Day. Must the physiologist stand apart from the philosopher. We are not forgetting the patience of the mad, their love of detail. The sudden brief early morning breeze, the first indication of a day‘s palpability, stays high in the trees, while flashing silver and green the leaves flutter, a bird sweeps from one branch to another, the indistinct shadows lift off the crumpled weeds, smoke rises from the gravel quarry——all this is metonymy. The “argument”   is the plot, proved by the book. Going forward and coming back later. Even posterity, alas, will know Sears. As for we who “love to be astonished,” there are fences keeping cyclones. Might be covered, on the ground, by no distance. She spread her fingers as she spoke, talking of artifice, which extends beauty beyond nature. Perhaps it is only a coincidence. For, as Neitzsche put it, “If a man has character, he will have the same experience over and over again.” In the morning at eight I sense the first threat of monotony. Give a penny with a knife. Candor is the high pitch of scrutiny. I was tired of ideas, or, rather, the activity of ideas, a kind of exercise, had first invigorated me and then made me sleepy, so that I felt just as one does after a long, early morning walk, returning unable to decide whether to drink more coffee or go back to sleep. The uncommon run of keeping oneself to oneself. The piggy-back plant is o.k. Tell anyone who telephones that I’m not home. I liked doing that, had made rooms for dolls on trucks that way, looking in on them through windows. It was a pretense of keeping our distance from anything that ap- peared pretentious. A sorry mess, but well-framed. As if a contorted checkerboard formed the portrait of a handsome woman in a hat of several ochres and umbers. The dog circles more than a moth before resting. Let the traffic pass. They were on vacation and therefore bored. Someone wanted to go away from everywhere forever but jumped into the bay. We were warned such accidents happen while mothers talk on phones. A doodled gnarled tree. Milk belongs to the mythology of cats but it makes them sick. Ours was a stray with ringworm. One night each year on Boston’s Beacon Hill the curtains remained undrawn and the public was invited to peek in. I didn’t wear my dark glasses because I didn’t want a raccoon tan. Yet this needs shading in. It seemed that I didn’t, after all, want a birthday empty of sentimentality. It’s on the compulsive buyer’s rack up front. The real adversary of my determination was determinism, regulating and limiting the range and degree of difference between things of one day and things of the next. I got it from Darwin, Freud, and Marx. Not fragments but metonymy. Duration. Language makes tracks.