[This post was written many years ago…I have a lifetime of writing and memories to draw from…some writing I am now unearthing, rediscovering. ]



Tonight, looking up at the sky for a few minutes, I observed the sky minutely, a patch of sky, a kind of bruised light plum color, a patch of real dark blue, puffs of clouds looking little somehow, little puffs; I imagined what it might be to be a painter observing these puffs of clouds, these colors: the light bruise color, a kind of light plum, the patch of blue, blending together; to be a painter who was capable of putting this scenery on canvas, probably in oils or maybe in watercolor. That I will never do; but I did feel, for a few minutes, that I was observing the world through a painter’s eyes. I was pleased that I was moved to observe so closely, at all; I think now of Edna Millay’s poem, Wild Geese; or is it Wild Swans? I guess swans. The swans fly over. Tiresome heart, closing the door, etc. She got tired of her inner feelings and observed the wild swans outside of her, above her, and got outside of herself, yet perhaps her feelings about the wild birds echoed her own feelings about herself, for the geese are “trailing their legs and crying.”
My observation of the clouds reminded me of another day when I observed clouds from my porch, and had a feeling that a poem could be coming along from me. The clouds triggered in me memories, that time, of the ball fringe on my curtains when I was staying at my parents’ house several years ago and spending a lot of time daydreaming about a relationship (making love) with a woman; I thought, secretly, that my daydream would never come true, even though I would sometimes say, when talking about it to a therapist or just in my own inner thoughts, “Well, maybe someday it’ll happen.” I truly thought it would never happen; but it did. I wonder how much this is true of the rest of my life, the other things that I wish would happen.

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