“I never travel without my diary; one should always have something sensational to read on the train.”

Trains were more dangerous in those days. Not that there were more accidents – in fact there were far fewer. What was in danger was rather a body's sense of its own limits; its simple, unproblematic position within time and space. For every train-car that clacked its wheels over the seams that punctuated the rails just across from the grassy, trashy spot outside Athens where I used to loiter aspiringly near the crouching knots of gypsies, my heart had an ache. For every ache my heart had, ten butterfly worms complied with their ancient tendency and took on powdery wings.

STRANGE THAT A HARP OF THOUSAND STRINGS SHOULD KEEP IN TUNE SO LONG

Inside is also outside
Inside is all outsides, a set of surfaces
Being surrounded by surfaces is being inside

HOP MERCHANTS

Filter of broad Humulus leaves hazes the shade greenish.
Leaves well addled with caterpillar jaw-work are auspicious of good hop crop.
In the foreground a freshly fledged Polygonia interrogationis, opening questions: it has not yet opened its wings, not even once; how many times in its life will it open its wings?
(Zoom in to notice its namesake silvered punctuation-mark, imperfectly printed.)
In the background a larval sibling, having stitched its foot to the eave, assumes the asana and begins the breathing exercises that will bring it a hard chrysalid shell; this container (you can see one there, the empty husk out of which the adult has crawled and upon which it still hangs, resting) will allow for total self-liquidation.
Liquid will reorganize itself over the course of a week or two and come out butterfly.

Schmetterling is built on an etymological energy of "smashing": the butterfly is like a fluttering piece of debris. English has an old word for this, "flinder"; this word too has carried butterfly senses (hence the archaic "flinder-mouse" for bat, cognate with German Fledermaus). Some scholars suggest "butterfly" to be a popular-etymology corruption of the unattested "batterfly".

Dear Daniel
Good to hear from you. The Propertius is true (Vincent Katz; you had espressos with him this morning over by the Palazzo Barberini) but the Paros is not. I can't believe you're in Roma, amazing. I spent one day there, once. Even just the thought of Italy makes me swoon (I'm boring that way).
According to my sources Roosevelt got Polio on Bear Mountain, up the Hudson.
I'm still in Maine; my life here very full. It's felt good to be based in one place for so long (since early February). I've been reading a lot – mostly on Maine Indian matters. Frank Speck, Fannie Hardy Eckstorm, Bunny McBride, Harald Prins: all your old favorites. Also on New England gravestone carving (Peter Benes, Ted Chase & Laurel Gabel, etc.), continuing that affectionate passion. I've become something of a New Englander. I realized recently what it is I've done: After scattering myself abroad and snagging my teeth hungrily on some of the wonderful things of latin american and various european worlds, lodging my heart in fibres of multiple shores & languages and feeling all the heartstring-stretching aches attendant to such promiscuous connection, I've contracted: into a more manageable economy of enthusiastic engagement. MASSACHUSETTS, for example, is to me now as saturated a text as the Mani; believe it or don't; I can hardly believe it myself; it's altogether true. And exceedingly convenient, for me, considering my whereabouts and my economic station. I commend myself on having (blindly, instinctively) cultivated this situation. It reminds me of when I got so much into AKVARIUM that I could authentically indulge my youthful record-store-consumer psychology in Brighton Beach where CDs only cost two dollars. A little excursion to some Connecticut River Valley village or Plymouth county graveyard can satisfy my hungers now as much as a train-ride to Monemvasia – and can be much more easily arranged. Of course the language element – that particular pleasure – is missing here; though I speak mexican in the strawberry fields (was picking strawberries the past couple weeks) and am considering going into Passamaquoddy.
I need to close here – things to get to –
but yes let's try & be more in touch; I'm delighted to think of you there and in France.
Bruce is well, but in slow decline and not relishing the prospect of my absence (for appling) in september.
Julian found true love, long hungered-for; a young man in New York who works for the Film Forum (and has "gratis + 1" at any cinema in the city). The whole paradigm around Julian's uneasy wordly ambitions for the Music Tapes has undergone a welcome shift consequent to this. Where there was a manic tangle of touring possibilities & record promotion etc. there's now a saner, gentler tangle which stresses less at the boundaries of my own quiet life. I've just today written to Stan & Jenny to commit to apples; I think that might cut me out of some touring activities; but all will be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
I send love to you and yours. L'anniversaire du petit Anatoly s'approche.
Hope I can see you all sometime.
your
Ian

The use of a pronoun – gendered or no – when referring to God is neither safe nor useful.

Old John Neptune, recorded by Thoreau: "Moose was whale once. Away down Merrimack way, a whale came ashore in a shallow bay. Sea went out and left him, and he came up on land a moose."

Black Book

Hollywood gives us two plumbers: Rosscoe Arbuckle, plumber from Hell, plumber who should have stayed plumber, Lucifer-plumber, plumber who climbed too high & plumbed too deep; and Cluny Brown, lovely lively Jennifer Jones in elegant froth of Lubitsch's last film which is a distillate in spite of itself of all his good world, and she the best good plumber, the unstopper of drains, the angel of flush and of flow.

McGee: Espresso debuted at Paris Expo 1855. The pressure extracts & emulsifies oils making for velvet & foam of well-pulled shot. Pu-erh: "All of its Phenolic contents are converted into nonastringent thearubigens and brown complexes."

Wheeler saw featured as tool-of-the-month in Martha Stewart Living, Feb. 2001. Made by OESCO Inc., Conway Mass; first made in Belchertown ca. 1945

Webster: "NINE, noun. The number composed of eight and one; or the number less by a unit than ten; three times three."

Ojibwa and Potawatami bands from around Great Lakes deployed 1200 warriors against New York and New England during the War of the Austrian Succession, 1744-48.

It is through la pauvreté, l'échec, et la mort that we draw near to God.

Emily Dickinson. The Johnson numbers come easily to us; we to whom come easily also her common meter and hymnic register, we living residues of the psalming system that was her template.

Gypsy slot filled for Eurofolk on Mount Desert by Wabanaki with baskets & fortune-telling.

Bruce in Dedham reading comic book while riding bike, got in a terrible accident: hit from behind, a hit & run! Left me for dead! Kid found me brought me home, I said to my sister, "Don't tell Mother!"

Max Hastings on Patrick Leigh Fermor: "Wearing his literacy light as wings, brimming over with laughter."

Elizabeth Coane Goodfellow arrived in Philadelphia 1806, credited w/inventing Lemon Meringue Pie.

Tide turned just before the Congo church struck two – boats moored at the river's mouth were bow-upstream; they moved slowly upriver, reached the resistance of their moorings, turned.

Jeanne d'Arc: "Pensez vous que nostre seigneur n'ait de quoy les vestir?"

In Milton's cardboard heaven: Transpose theological reality into time, i.e. into "Greek Mythology".

Bruce: Alice and I were just barefooted kids, in our twenties – invited to a party at Domenico's tower – we walked around the tower, and Domenico is there with this most beautiful woman – Alice was so impressed – and we could hear them softly speaking Italian – (stopped by quiet tears)

Frank Speck: the "bush economy" of long hunting trips provides a space for the survival of pre-contact material culture.

Perch, flounder, smelt, skate, dab, plaice, pout, scup.

"In prayer he did not stop at the frontiers of his knowledge and his reasoning. He adored God and God's mysteries as they are in themselves and not as he understood them."

"Charles Quincy Goodhue (1835-1910) spent the last twenty years of his life sketching Portland as it had looked before the fire of 1866."

Bruce: "Jones is a Welsh name, know what it means? Smith."

Phineas Parkhurst Quimby hangs out his shingle in Belfast, Maine, 1847: "Clockmaker, Mesmerist, Healer, Daguerrian Artist."

Mother Ann: "Sweep clean."

Peter Benes's crazy science: Plymouth County "geometric" designs represent embryonic angels; late-century explicit angel facialization is post-resurrection imaging of same "after their translation into time-resistant celestial beings".

Moose are like whales.

Welcome to Old Town

Canoe is a Taíno word, recorded by Columbus after his initial Bahamian intercourse with these, his first Indians. The word was transmitted among the European languages as applied indiscriminately to any of the diverse boats used in the waters of the American hemisphere. (According to the same pidgin grammar, all the varied people who designed, built, and employed these boats were called Indians.) The differences between, for example, the dugout Miskito coasting duri – etymon to our Gulf of Maine banks dory – and the lightweight Penobscot birchbark agwiden were thus linguistically sublimated. James Rosier writes in 1605 of the Wabanaki Canoas; Plymouth County Court Records attribute an accidental drowning death in 1660 to a "naughty canoo". In consequence to the Northeast's becoming the locus of England's greatest successes in American colonization, and to the obvious superiorities of its ingenious portageable design, the cedar-&-birch boat of the Maine woods came eventually to eclipse all else in the semantic field "canoe". The integrity of the design was found to survive the replacement of its birchbark & sprucegum sheath with one of painted canvas, and the Old Town Canoe Co. began at the end of the 19th century to produce them this way in great quantity and to market them aggressively. Today as one enters Old Town the welcome sign reads, somewhat redundantly, "Welcome to Old Town, Home of the Old Town Canoe". Indian Island in Old Town being – and having been, from time immemorial – the axial hub of the Penobscot nation, whose agwiden is the unaltered, already-perfect prototype to our modern canoe, the sign should read, "Welcome to Old Town, Home of the Canoe".

Did, almost; you wrest it, wore. Sail. Hundred yards wet canvas belly out, smacks scatter after mackerel. Wood mixes with another element, bleaches red pants pink.

This is one nephew; and it is another nephew's third birthday today. Praise God. My broken axle. I'd procured a new one, five dollars, but on trying to install it soon found it was too short. Grease all over my hands, hungry: only donuts, and those frozen. Eat them frozen. Who ever heard of freezing a donut. I'll miss the bus! Tomorrow heavy rain, can't ride from station. My eyes: why can't I focus on anything? Was that sucker-whip during the Gorham pruning a couple months back as damaging as that? Apparently so. And my camera lens too somehow sympathetically declined into blurs & spots. Give up on bus, ride back to bike shop to find a longer axle. They don't have one. Get my dollars back and bring them to the shop in the "New System Laundry" building; leave with a gnarly-looking axle and head for Eastern Cemetery to reflect. Cemetery gates locked, absurd: richest butteriest light of the day, finest time to visit that place. Sundown hour conceptualized on winter-terms, habit, leftover. Climb fence; my eyes! Trees blurry, House Island & Whitehead heartstring-strumming impressionistic visual processes off in the blue of god. Slip and hit knee, hard. Am I dying?

Aglianico

The word is for greek
it came out of greek
ink-wine, oaked
bright phenols in
those parts of my mouth
and yours. I walked with it
into late light, shiva beads
round me. Hailed by whom,
my blurry eyes: oh, him! Smile,
sit & finish glass on blanket, might as well
be a hitchhiking poem. Chuang Tzu couldn't
be more than. How will your apartment. Bread &
oil like carnal. When another could just as.

i dreamed i was a piece of board and that the blanket was a piece of bookcloth and it was a very complicated portfolio and i sat up and couldn't move for a long time because i was thinking i wouldn't remember how all the pieces went together and i couldn't figure out if it was important. and i couldn't remember what bodily functions could have possibly woken me, finally i pieced together 1. peeing 2. shitting 3. bleeding and then i realized one of those three things at least must be imperative and then i slowly realized that it was ok to let go of the pieces of the portfolio...

"Mary's Voice"

I feel the quiet spheres
depending from her palm;
they move among our
intermittent breaths

Cowper on Acer platanoides in Massachusetts

This maple's modest bloom, the green
That hazes naked limbs like dancers' gauze
Across our Wampanoag waters; green
Of calyx and corolla crowding out
The tiny gold of pistil-tips to trick
Or almost trick us into reading all
As common leafage. Yesterday I walked
Around the Kentish graveyard, Scituate,
Wherein the massy winds my bike had worked
Against to get me there had shaken down
A thousand maple blossoms, strewing them
Like wedding-toss among the figured stones.

η χαρά του Πάσχα

Friend choose friend from
Shore-trash, sea-heave, crush, Kit
Smart calls out Creation's help in
Hymning Him. I concur, demur, praise
Her, a blur of lines – between tone & tone, reed &
Voice, taste & dream, here & now: Bill
Billings, nightingale, sang Boston in its
Eventide, before the Human Face for
Cinerary salix got exchanged, a dirty
Deal. In ink off photoglyph gravures that acid
Etched against resists of egg-white mixed
With dichromate of potash we can see &
Smell the rutted road, the horse, its
Shit, her shirt & skirt, his broad-mouthed
Grin. This luminescence is unboundable by
Any boneyard's moss; trees fruit for this, fill
Baskets – olives, almonds, apples, ten bushels
Excellent Endicott pears to Mr
Harts Horne for grave stoons. I
See the rise of dory against painter, see the
Rise of land against blue sky, of palmate
Maple, pinnate oak, and Absalom in cambium ever
Dying inward, ever swelling outward, weaving
Wood.

Anteater

Tides trending outward complicate the land. The chug of an overburdened Hampton boat cuts a track into the heavy liquid element, setting up an off-rhyme against the matters of a growing shore.

From this village to the next is only three Petersburg versts (fifteen hundred arshins, a quick walk): but your little apple-house where I want so badly to visit you — regularly, regularly! — is fifty or sixty whole seventeenth-century versts away! If we compose the village in our hearts it will not hurt us so much that we are not homesteading in it. If I take a well-weighted little machete — one of those ones they sell at the ferretería by parque Morazán, the blade not more than fifty or sixty barleycorns long — and I whack & thwack a while on a split-out piece of heartwood pruned off your big old Collins tree, the one behind the outhouse, and Lou loans me her crooked-knife, I could work up a good set of spoons for us all to use with the star-&-heart guacales for our birthday soup Sunday.

Springtime in Dagestan

The fluky string band in Sóller hacked out a Xenakis quartet last night with appropriate proportions of gravity, levity, gravidity, and levantinity in spite of all their technical failings. I walked home happy. I love this time when the snowbanks sink. The land swallows them like an ocean & becomes itself a matter for swimming through. Sap-fires steep muddly clothes in hackmatack smoke & Molly MacDougall muddles mint in perennial rum-warmth of the heart. I exchange the Black Sea for the Caspian; I am a trader; flux stagnates, a challenge to diction; on the western shores of this sea I pine for the western shores of that sea, meanwhile gathering resins and chewing them, spitting gladly, conditioning horsehair for saw-song. See-sawing thus, I make a habitation of Spring.

keridas amigas
como les va
donde se han perdido