The daffodils have come up again as they have faithfully for 9 years since I first planted them, but I remain a cold wet bulb beneath the earth. The mono is making a long exit with a train of fatigue sweeping the floor on its way out. I'm still waking around noon and seeing only a few hours of sunlight before I go to work in the Yale basement. Were I less tired I'd be frustrated by limited daily consciousness and a weakened body, but instead I embrace the darkness and spend the nights making rivers of black ink on pine boards, which is endlessly fascinating to me. It's the first time I've really enjoyed drawing probably since I planted those daffodils. I like the solitude of night to be alone with the lines. I like speaking only in pictures. I would burrow even deeper underground if I could.
You, darkness, that I come from,
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes
a circle of light for everyone,
and then no one outside learns of you.
But the dark pulls in everything;
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them,
powers and people.
And it is possible a great energy
is moving towards me.
I have faith in nights.