Equivalent today to the Homeric catalogue of ships is the list of poets' names. "Poets such as [blah, blah, blah]. . ." Does this mean poets have become dinghies? Part of a flotilla? Part of one big ship of fools, christened "Fame"?

Reading a book about Joseph Cornell & listening to bloggers talk about childhood books & memories. Would like to consider again the concept of "metaform" I was working on here a few weeks ago. Metaform as the interiorization of experience & its recapitulation in a finished, unique work of art. Originality.

But I guess there is a more impersonal conception of what a poet does. The originality expressed in wit & the ability to combine & assemble & respond to events. Spontaneity.

But the sameness, the grinding chorus of pinwheels, jukeboxes & slot machines. Fetishizing the photomontage. As opposed to the patience of the painter. Time seeps into the canvas through mornings & afternoons & evenings outdoors.

What is an artist? Somebody who has detached him or herself from the wheel somehow. Is standing still & time is seeping out of them, bleeding at the edges.

"Providence. My Providence."