I have a rusty nail sticking out of my doorpost that serves as my cottage 'mailbox'. If I'm not in people just write a little note and stick it onto the nail.
If you ever want to write a note; leave a comment, poem, or song; or ask a question that doesn't pertain to any particular post, just leave it here.
I keep old notes from the doorpost nail in a cigar box just inside the door. If you're curious go ahead and browse through them.
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Sucking on a skinned almond I taste
its slick ridges, the point addresses the tip of my tongue with yielding persistence. Between molars, split in two, I lap at its smooth interior planes. Even before I clench around it's silky flesh I can feel the sticky mach imbedded in my bicuspids. It is sour. It is untamed and therefore not bred for ingestion. It is laced throughout with arsenic, a natural component of the undomesticated almond. Never mind my house burning across the seat. Taste the bitter on the back of the tongue, almost in the throat. Swallow the urge to heave out the poison. Stretch out my hands to warm them in the glow of red and yellow. Lie back in the snow, smell the cold, hear the stars prick my eardrums.
Brother Damien
I guess my question is "Is this poetry?". I'm sure I don't know. I think it might be something like what I wish I could write more often though. It just sort of came to me; I wrote it all at once so I don't know what it's really like. I don't think I really like it much, but then again it does seem to be me somehow. Oh well, in any case I am confident you can enlighten me.
Br. Damien
Almost forgot. Left an AleSmith Speedway Stout around back. Enjoy!
B.D.
Here's a little summer something:
I Scream!
Crunchysticky sweet,t,t
Circled fingers in that megaphone shape
The corrugated cake cone
The smooth silk soft serve
Chinlick by lipbite shaping cream to peak
-ed mountain
The inside ribs poke at the gums
Cold freezes teeth to their roots
Throat and stomach spread
The coolwarmth out to tacky fingers
Flipflop toes
Brother Damien
p.s. I beg forgiveness for my absence on Sat. I forgot about the pre-summer chores that needed doing around the monastery. The borthers all pitched in and it is now a respectable sight. Visit soon? B.D.
Friend,
Thank you so much for your participation in our cermonies for Brother Oswald. He was dear brother and will be dearly missed.
I have recently been offered and have accepted new duties working outside the monastery. I have been asked to help some nearby members of the valley learn to live well in their surroundings and begin to garner some of the benefits afforded us by our surroundings. This is taking up much of my time and, though I sorely miss them and will diligently seek to continue them, I must decrease the frequency of my visits. I earnestly hoped to find you here but I see a rod or two missing from your collection and assume you have gone to lasso some river cattle.
May He continue to bless you as I do,
Brother Damien
p.s. I am working on a new poem. perhaps we can discuss it this weekend? I promise to curtail my forgetful habits at least long enough to meet with you.
p.p.s. I watched Wim Wender's Wings in the middle of the week and I set a fierce, warm light burning in and around me. Thank you.
You've taken it off your reading list, but I just bought and finished "The Baron in the Trees" and really liked it. I also read "The Myth of Sisyphus" right after and definitely liked the former better. Just finished Barth's "Dogmatics in Outline" and now on to "Pensees" (it was a long business trip). Suggestions on what next?
What a lovely little abandoned shack. I'm tempted to kick in the door, as it is clear that whoever used to inhabit this place has since moved on - permanently, by the look of things. But these walls were built by his hands. And so they are sacred. Perhaps the Abbey on the hill can provide me shelter. Should you return, I hope to meet you.
Well, I've been to the monestary, and it appears abandoned too, strangely. I believe I shall make camp here for the night, as I'm unclear as to which direction leads safely from this valley. It it lovely - but the horizon seems forboding. I pray you return soon, I could use your help. If you do, look for my tent in the nearby woods.
The sense of unease has been identified. Over the past several nights, it has become especially clear to me. Wandering through the valley by day, I had become distracted by the sound of the river, the wind in the trees, and the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and face. But at night...
At night, with fewer distractions, it becomes obvious that I am singularly alone in this valley. Not only is the builder of this cabin absent - there is no indication of any life present whatever. No howling coyotes. No birds calling. Not even an insect's chirp.
What's more alarming than even this inexplicable solitude is that wandering to the edge of the forest has proven impossible. No matter how far I walk, and for what length of hours, I end up cresting the knoll to your cottage again.
I don't know if this should be troubling of peaceful for my soul. Those feelings flit like shadows and shift like the wind. I fear.
I tried kicking in your door here, but it is securely bolted. The windows are also curiously resiliant, and the slats confound any attempt at dislocation.
I don't want to intrude. It's just that this cottage is the only sign of any kind of life having ever been here. I feel I must find my way in, but thus far cannot.
I've read the other notes on the nail many times over. Strange, most.
I continue to await some sense of purpose for my current predicament. Perhaps if there were a key hidden somewhere...
Through the windows I spy various pieces of art and literature which I long to explore. The door clearly has two uniquely-shaped keyholes. One for the bolt, the other for the latch, I suppose. I've dug around as much as I can, seeking clues as to where you might have hidden the keys.
No avail
I've returned from an extended tour of this valley. I walked for two weeks straight. I believed myself hemmed in on all sides, but have since discovered a route through the mountains. Not sure where it will lead, but my rations are gone now, and without food to hunt -
I find myself strangely fearful and filled with sorrow for this place. Somehow I know that it shall forever remain deserted of life. The way into the valley is surely only known to a few. Scarce others might stumble on it by chance. Perhaps a few wanderers have heard of it and sought it as did I. But beautiful as it is - I pray they don't find it.
This shall be my last not on your doorpost nail - I will begin my treck to the mountains before first light. Your little pencil is but a nub now anyway. I doubt that any others shall make use of it.
Farewell. Should you return, I wish you well in your journeys. Perhaps our paths will cross someday. But I doubt it.
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