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Thinking Over 'Thought-Letter to my Daughter'
Listen now as instead of thinking about writing I have a small breakdown!!
(I have issues with aural processing) (I find noises overwhelming sometimes) Like this time here now with a garbage truck and barking dog and neighbor noise it is in some ways about art and in other ways a documentation of the deconstruction of my cognitive functions when a little noise comes this way!
Well anyway enjoy
Here’s the poem for following along, of course:
Thought-Letter to my Daughter
Goddamn it just this, listen
I know you don’t know me
well, it doesn’t matter; there
are things I need to tell you
hungover today from drinking
an abominable combination
of wine and Piña Colada
abominable in your thirties
and thereon so please,
be patient, my head hurts.
For this and other reasons
we will not speak proper,
driven apart by me we will
only speak in this way,
until nonexistence draws us
nearer, close enough to hear
until then just this, listen
there were spring days when
cherry blossoms would fill the sky
and dapple light on your face,
and i would sneeze heavily
those days, and still walk
to a park and lay in the sun
and all along the walk were
crawling flowers and a breeze
and I thought not for a moment
of work- there were really days
like that and other days I would sit
for hours alone in my apartment
thirsty and idling and unable
to move into the world, sad,
alone, lonely, with no sense of life
or its purpose no sense of pleasure
there were many many days like that, too
many, and in my time alone I
wondered often about the possibility
of finding something that worked
a person and a place and activity
that would allow for your creation.
You cannot understand but neither
could elementary school teachers or
friends nor employers or church leaders
so I won’t try to explain it. We
had no chance, you and I,
and that’s all an aside.
In my poverty I met some people
who’s porch was warmed
by morning autumn sun and
who had rooms that bled from one
another, and they were generous-
I think of them as I think of you
I see the beauty in my peripheries
and I see the impossibility of life
before me, the unnavigable road
from here to there, though I have
tried for a long time to cross
and even still am trying. When
I talk of someday I am speaking
on that effort. It is important
you know how hard I am working
to close the gap between us, that
in my inevitable failure you
see the violence of life, and cry
for me, that you do not consider
me like my father, who left, that he
and I are placed differently, all of this
is important. And also that
you understand the life you missed
was made against you too, that
bread and cheese —many things,
god, the dirt, the moss, lambs ear,
to be doted upon, head-rested on
and tear pool shouldered— were beautiful
and delicious in their rarity, that
when a friend touches you on your
back it is an exception to the rule
of existence, that it is the sole pleasure
of a mired week or month. and
If you ever come to see me, then one
more piece must be true, which
justifies your not knowing, that
the gentle draft which cools the room
in the evening is a silly good thing
when compared to the reward of
times movement, what I mean-
its complicated- is that I was wrong
about the balance, and you will
be alright, all these things settled out:
good and bad, yes and no, pain;
if we ever meet you’ll know what
I’m saying, the fruition of life
evidenced in our meeting, that
apology still needed. Listen,
it’s gotten too heady, I can be
that way, you don’t know me well
enough to know, afternoon creeps on
and I have to eat, shower, quit this,
so I’ll say at last that we won’t,
I’m sorry, don’t get me wrong please
we never would have met; that’s all
but I tried, a little bit anyway,
and I hope you weep for me.
Love, Oliver.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit boliverb.substack.com
View all episodes
By with Oliver BurellListen now as instead of thinking about writing I have a small breakdown!!
(I have issues with aural processing) (I find noises overwhelming sometimes) Like this time here now with a garbage truck and barking dog and neighbor noise it is in some ways about art and in other ways a documentation of the deconstruction of my cognitive functions when a little noise comes this way!
Well anyway enjoy
Here’s the poem for following along, of course:
Thought-Letter to my Daughter
Goddamn it just this, listen
I know you don’t know me
well, it doesn’t matter; there
are things I need to tell you
hungover today from drinking
an abominable combination
of wine and Piña Colada
abominable in your thirties
and thereon so please,
be patient, my head hurts.
For this and other reasons
we will not speak proper,
driven apart by me we will
only speak in this way,
until nonexistence draws us
nearer, close enough to hear
until then just this, listen
there were spring days when
cherry blossoms would fill the sky
and dapple light on your face,
and i would sneeze heavily
those days, and still walk
to a park and lay in the sun
and all along the walk were
crawling flowers and a breeze
and I thought not for a moment
of work- there were really days
like that and other days I would sit
for hours alone in my apartment
thirsty and idling and unable
to move into the world, sad,
alone, lonely, with no sense of life
or its purpose no sense of pleasure
there were many many days like that, too
many, and in my time alone I
wondered often about the possibility
of finding something that worked
a person and a place and activity
that would allow for your creation.
You cannot understand but neither
could elementary school teachers or
friends nor employers or church leaders
so I won’t try to explain it. We
had no chance, you and I,
and that’s all an aside.
In my poverty I met some people
who’s porch was warmed
by morning autumn sun and
who had rooms that bled from one
another, and they were generous-
I think of them as I think of you
I see the beauty in my peripheries
and I see the impossibility of life
before me, the unnavigable road
from here to there, though I have
tried for a long time to cross
and even still am trying. When
I talk of someday I am speaking
on that effort. It is important
you know how hard I am working
to close the gap between us, that
in my inevitable failure you
see the violence of life, and cry
for me, that you do not consider
me like my father, who left, that he
and I are placed differently, all of this
is important. And also that
you understand the life you missed
was made against you too, that
bread and cheese —many things,
god, the dirt, the moss, lambs ear,
to be doted upon, head-rested on
and tear pool shouldered— were beautiful
and delicious in their rarity, that
when a friend touches you on your
back it is an exception to the rule
of existence, that it is the sole pleasure
of a mired week or month. and
If you ever come to see me, then one
more piece must be true, which
justifies your not knowing, that
the gentle draft which cools the room
in the evening is a silly good thing
when compared to the reward of
times movement, what I mean-
its complicated- is that I was wrong
about the balance, and you will
be alright, all these things settled out:
good and bad, yes and no, pain;
if we ever meet you’ll know what
I’m saying, the fruition of life
evidenced in our meeting, that
apology still needed. Listen,
it’s gotten too heady, I can be
that way, you don’t know me well
enough to know, afternoon creeps on
and I have to eat, shower, quit this,
so I’ll say at last that we won’t,
I’m sorry, don’t get me wrong please
we never would have met; that’s all
but I tried, a little bit anyway,
and I hope you weep for me.
Love, Oliver.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit boliverb.substack.com