this blog has seen little of my consummate verbiage lately so I take this sunday evening to produce some brain-scrapings for your delectation. we have, as I did mench, moved, down the road a piece. we remain in the luxury of our boxes but made a goodly effort today at emptying a few. we situate across the street from the town green and the inescapable Unitarian church there. I was born into a Unitarian church but it gave me nothing, tho I liked the church building as a bright meditative space. my birthday was wednesday. I share it with Herman Melville, William Clark, and Jerry Garcia, probably others. there is no reason to associate myself with them, but let me anyway. Melville is a wonder, certainly in his greatness (Moby Dick) but also in his struggles. Lewis and Clark are a trope that has lost nothing for me. a sense of creative adventure in that journey. I'm planning to write a rockopera about the Corps of Discovery, done as an hommage to Jerry. Madonna would be wonderful as Sacagawea. yesterday was the birthday of Robert Grenier, Roger Clemens and Percy Bysshe Shelley. of course Clemens stinks, the greedy crumb bum, but the other 2 pulsate. one time at Franconia College I was in a room with Grenier and another person, just the 3 of us. somehow birthdays came up, and it was revealed that mine was 8/1, Grenier 8/4, and the other person 8/3. well I was born in the Year of the Dragon and according to all horoscopic evidence I'm a pretty wonderful person. you could look it up. we went to Walden twice today. 1st time, Beth and I circumambulated its verdant gleam. the 2nd time we brought foodstuffs at dinner time. the parking lot had just reopened when we arrived. attendance amidst the pond's coconut tanning creme aroma is kept strictly in hand. a sign explains the wherefore of the pond's high water level: porous pavement. rain seeps thru the pavement instead of running off. less erosion, thus. because of the rise in water level there remains little of what you'd call beach. benches that used to line the wall bordering part of the pond are now underwater. that's so freaky! I aint hardly read nuthin' lately, books have yet to be released from their limbo. in boxing books I happened upon Sound and Fury, which I am slowly rereading. Faulkner is so wound up in his mythology, which is a good and bad thing. his weak novels are caricatures, of Faulkner, of the South (a South he invented, or people believe he contributed to the American psyche). in S&F, he's clearer on the mythic extent, it feels close to home. when he overburdens the furious tragic element, and the dogma of Southern decrepitude, he sucks out loud, to put it baldly. yoiu can tell him I said so. in my edition, S&F is aptly offered with As I Lay Dying. which is a grisly comedy that should have been made into a film by some ardent and exacting filmmaker. I mean, it is funny the way Goodfellas is funny, and maybe Scorsese would be the one to do justice to this aweful and compelling story. Madonna would be great as the corpse. and my ramble report endeth here...