Caveat: Memoirs of the Architect

-> . . . )  Memoirs of the Architect ? {Post title}

When the calico cat on the couch fades
in the slanted rays of the wintersun
And when the streets outside the window
reach not for home but for their origins
Gentle, gentle, do my tears come.

Without the calculus of my memory to guide
those tears
Without the nurture of my once heroic
imaginings
Quiet, quiet, the pain slips heavily.

Toward anger                .    Time
the                            .        out
Knife                .            of
slips                            time
home.                    lost,

Cannot,
for whatever reason,
That these viscous drops of blood are mine.
And so bloodied a knife in my trembling
hand
Call me to mind,
A japanese garden I once
saw in a photograph which I perceived
with an ambition to become an architect.

A designer of my struggling end.

Little pebbles, little pebbles
meaning
.    for
.            nought
Quiet    .
11/17/83 JARED

There’s no eagerness here.
Nor will it ever come to pass
But in the thick, timid soul
of the non-architect.
There.
It is irremediable.  ( . . . ->

[The “retroblogging” project:  this is a “back-post” transcribed from paper on 2010-11-28.  I’ve decided to “fill-in” my blog all the way back.  It’s a big project.  But there’s no time limit, right?  The above entry was surprising to find.

It appears to mark the very specific moment when I gave up my childhood dream to become an architect.  I’m not sure it explains why, though.]