Life as notation. we make our own news, supply evidence. This is the public life, attaching tags, Easter eggs. Reshaping the private (acquaintances, friends, family, work).
Hard toll. The blood. The light in your eyes. upon your lips. to run out to the glade in. A red, wet. In every way. You. Angels of God. Hand in hand. Dear Old. They gossip about us. And the garland crowns___the Captain of the reapers. The battle of the field is now stoutly fought. And the proud rye must stoop to the sickle.
Diaryo, diario, diary, daily, dailies, news, a new thing, nouvelles, tidings. The archivist hoards news and fetishizes…events (the re-telling, re-porting (“an account brought by one person to another, rumor…reportare “carry back,” from re- “back” + portare “to carry,”) dates, and the media itself in its degenerating state. Paper turning brown, thin. The layers of rumor, spots of ink, poems. Twitter feeds appearing, shuttled down and out of sight.
The archivist knows that past news is a fantasm, a made up thing—but assists in the illusion, to hold together a particular view of the world, or out of fear of certain actions repeated.
The news is now more often read than heard. Stitching across my line of sight. A rhetoric of involvement, of keeping up, transforming the day. Getting “the facts” right. Listening on the way to work. Ritual of work + news. Accidents, robberies, “Fugitive Friday.” Now read in silence, although, the boldness of headlines. Black/white. Bloody color. Minute parsing of details. Each column a poem when heard in portions on the radio, in portions before beginning the day’s work. A few seconds stolen here and there.
The “domestic” realm has its details too. A crack in the ceiling above the heater. The neighbors moving to (vacationing in?) Mexico. My Netflix list, the current Dr. Who. A change in medication, change in cost. Things get personal, but they leak out into the cloud. Poem as news, emotional expenditure. The news that dreams bring.