holy fou mogra. i fount water and dreams, by gaston bachelard in the free library. i'm just gazing dreamily at the cover now. sigh. i look at penny the cat. sigh. look at the bald eagle cam in iowa sigh. i know there will be such sweet gleaning from this fount book. i remember the poetics of space. way before i was a cosmonaut launched in the blogosphere. some things, some minds, are such a comfort to return to. like returning to your own nest, your own mind. which i find hard to do sometimes. like yesterday. 
but the hard passes where i get arrested yield gleanings too. i recognized that when i was hurt and angry and then self-critical after the non-response of say johnny to my blog, it went down deep before i could track it, way beyond johnny in a quantum instant, it struck my father chord, and i recognized it today, it's like that phenomenon of the oppressed taking on the religion of the oppressor, as cryptic coloring, as a cover under which they can regain the power lost or stolen or given away. and this feeling resonates back in time to my father and yo-yo's again to the present where we give power to suchlike as donnie-john, and scads of other cads who wrest power from the people and oppress and kill for the elite. well my dad wasn't that bad. i get perspective, sometimes, in my elastic yo-yoing through space-time. 

it strikes a deep chord. a father chord.