i've been feeling punky and fuzzy, inarticulate and chagrined, and just dumb, mayhaps because my life is doggedly imbalanced and i can't connect with humanity and am fascebook challenged. but there's a weird disconnect within my world of imbalance: i go blank when i look at the pictures gathered by day, feeling that blank apprehension of the classroom which devolved into my blank poet phase and i wonder, how to just let it happen, why doesn't it just you know, happen. and when i was emailing s. i thought why can't i just blog like that without the pressure, just like i'm textalking to someone, like s. and so i wrote that i would try to interpolate or what is the word, you know, but then it seems artificial and transmuted. you probably hate me reading this tripe. i thought it's like my teacher said my writing had no place or point of view and i was struck by that yet it felt more like i'd been seen in my hiding place, which was a place, and i guess is a place, but a place that can't be identified because it only holds me, if that, yet it's mine, and i was kind of chagrined that he had the hoo-hah to criticize my context of no context, and when i texted s. i thought of george s. trow's, The Context of No Context, which i red and forgot and recently found again in an evicted or dead man's apartment for free and now i suppose must reread thought it likely has no bearing on my context of no context, and so i go back to this picture, which is the context of love of my beloved golden mister. which is a moving place with warm gravity.