Further Notes On Watching A Fly On A Slate Table: The Return Of The Fly

This post is a follow on to an earlier post called, ‘A Poem: Watching A Fly On A Slate Table: A Fly Tetralogy’.   With the full privilege of a month in a Himalayan hut, I was granted the rare liberty of observing a common fly for a period not too removed of two hours.  I’d avoided flies in Rishikesh: they’d usually flown hot, straight from a homeless and vomiting cow’s arse.  But here in the flowery mountains, I imagined this one had just danced from a pink rose or at worst had been pestering a butterfly.  You may think that flies are just black dots that you brush off, but I firmly advocate closer inspection.  A whole world is waiting in the minutiae.  My protracted period of muscidae monitoring resulted in the following poem, which is a sequel to my earlier poem.  My main gripe is that there is no mention of Jeff Goldblum. Continue reading

Words of Cormac Mccarthy

“They rode on. The horses trudged sullenly the alien ground and the round earth rolled beneath them silently milling the greater void wherein they were contained. In the neuter austerity of that terrain all phenomena were bequeathed a strange equality and no one thing nor spider nor stone nor blade of grass could put forth claim to precedence. The very clarity of these articles belied their familiarity, for the eye predicates on some feature or part and here was nothing more luminous than another and nothing more enshadowed and in the optical democracy of such landscapes all preference is made whimsical and a man and a rock become endowed with unguessed kinships.”

CORMAC MCCARTHY
BLOOD MERIDIAN

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