field & field 4 field notes ellie epp

- 3



these days at the (green) table writing, hot day is unlived except maybe as the drive


                        then evening's great shining               i'll write down calmly, how sharply i look at the figures walking across the top of the alley


is it less beautiful to hear oneself  say it out in simple lines         as i want to


i wrote passionately about the huge free impartial body of english


and kept writing, all the more, but with less certainty


it was part of a trace of a passage, at best


the movement from one meaning to another is a shift i feel spatially


i liked the image of working from inside rock to open perspectives

a prenate thoughtful touching of directions


if something grips           it is real,  but don't stop there or assume knowledge of what literary pleasure is


destroying the possibility of prestige



charm, value, ethic   tactic   & gender,    in writing



there's no possibility of getting it all but if the few traces are accurate the rest will be accurately implied


feeling the rules i write by, those i refer to now, & those i remember,  as undiscussed, a space of charges, a suspension, the familiar unspoken    -


thinking by an emotional indication

            placing something


'writing within the hologram already formed'


in these days being light in light few clothes    white pink & red        the image from jumping off the bicycle beside plate glass


toward dawn riding up behind a man on roller skates   swaying his lunch bag      throwing one leg after the other,  sideways         i rode up near to look in his face      could see a nectarine in the plastic bag, his laces left untied




raise hell between us             something


and you know what made them do it was curiosity,

they wanted to see what was inside

            they wanted to see her looking at her inside





going further upstream



the mother has to know it.   no one else can know it at that age.  the mother has to be there to know it, otherwise it is lost.


i as if bow in front of our finding the way to each other


then the sounds in bed & she dazed dressing in the closet


bowed over       panting with crying       i say to stay still & take longer breaths


'i see it cut off'             a piece of meat like a slice of chicken heart being flung at an obelisk             it's in a (cellar) room with a rounded ceiling               tibet


am i the anchor in this world & she out on the end of the cord?


there is also a feeling that whatever i do will not be right,   wrong,   will simply further the world of that act



today the quiet excitement,      arrivals of completions           patience   (that it will go on being there)   of the saturday & sunday of luke's conception



i have to bear the not knowing you    -           'i had to realize i didn't know anything about where you were in it'  -                         the spots of the red berries of the rowan in the light that had no other color       -


            hand on the thin chest between the beginnings of the breasts         the small grieved dazed one

            smal grievd dazd one              smal head        weighted with glass


in the two days yelling                        'it's beginning to close'               the marvel of what can be said                 the marvel of how much is not understood


the largest admiration              -           a vacuity of strangeness        -           certain arrivals together           -           sudden diving under her argument to see where it's wrong


basement corridors                 egypt in the fields west of the highway                     room with a bed                   rock                 green               stone               the dead                       end                  lost ditch


suddenly diving under her argument  -           coming near to the present and leaving it


that i've been a long time collecting messages fr