Notebook

From my notebook, written in my inexpensive but nicely refined fountain pen blue:

"My attunation is now obvious: that the whole of my attention, the full spectrum of my hearing instantly reorients to the cry of the child and the murmur of the mother. There is no understanding, cognitive sense left to remain attentive to the academic, the ontology and the asoteric dialectic. Nothing save my gaze, left on the figure of intelligence, not yet capable of calling forth into being a human, a child. What hope do I have of writing with my eyes? What can I bring forth thus split? The bandwidth of my brain remains devoted to the baby, the scribbling nib of my pen quiet between my fingers. What to do, in the arid fecundity of appropriation?"