[Serafini via Giornale Nuovo]

Long, long stretches of silence this year, and as it ends I think of how little I say here and how I am to think of that. I'm reading Anne Carson's Oresteia and relishing language again -- savoring words like dreamvisible, griefremembering pain, allenveloping doom. I love this and yet it pains me a bit because I think of how little time I have to soak up these words and to play with them. Yesterday, as I traveled home I slipped sideways into that travelmind which besets me and thought of beautiful phrases and important ideas and then they left me, gusted away and forgotten.

There will be time yet, I know, to dwell on these things and lay them out slow and careful and maybe sometimes fitfully -- the language I want to play with and weave and set down. But now I do these other kinds of thinking and writing and I must guard carefully those chances to lay my mind down upon beautiful language, terrible language. But still I wonder -- why are these things segregated? Why not describe Spinoza's theory of adequate knowledge using words like those Aiskhylos uses? Well, perhaps because that would take a greater mind than my own. I must compartment out my thoughts and words and relish those few moments where insight arcs across the space between and a true idea fires in my mind.

There is not a little nostalgia in the ending of this year -- nostalgia for a present that might have been -- but it is so heavily tangled up in great joy and satisfaction and abiding happiness that I must see it clearly and dismiss it as something for another time. Wordweaving and scenemaking for another time -- now is the time for peopleloving and crisp thought.