in which witness is borne: birds, politics, fiction and critical art theory


Sunday, December 12, 2004
this morning we had a pair of juncos in the backyard. like a small gift to mitigate the rawness of the day, these two small round fellows greeted me from under the neutral clouds as i switched off the porch light.
kind of a relief to spot them silently by myself, cause for me this was a week of speaking wrongly, saying everything except what i mean and then puzzling it out later--something about clumsiness, a lumpish clunky tongue that refuses to speak my mind. do men of power ever have weeks like this?
we know that W. does, all the time--he misspeaks himself, he stumbles over what should be familiar phrases, he misses the mark and has to retreat from statements later on. it's a familiar kind of forgiveness we feel for him in those moments, the same way i have to forgive myself when i ask a dumb question (cause let's face it, folks, there IS such a thing) or take too long to get around to my point. oh, he didn't really mean it that way, it just came out sounding bad, &c.
is saying what we mean so difficult with the language we have that it no longer is a prerequisite for statesmanship?
11:28 AM :: ::
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