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rejectomorphBecause it was a shopping day I didn't get an an afternoon nap, and because I didn't get an afternoon nap I've gotten cranky. If exhaustion makes me fall asleep before the end of the television show I intend to watch later I'll get even crankier. That has happened too often recently. There is now a backlog of stories to which I don't know the end. What is the point of watching a story if you don't get to see the end? Discovering what happens at the end is the point of a story. If you don't get that you might as well just live entirely in reality, to which nobody ever gets to see the end.
It isn't helping that it's eighty degrees in the house right now. It's even hotter outside although the sun is already setting. It's likely to be an hour before I can open the windows, and I'm considering turning on the air conditioner, although if I cool the house to, say, 78 degrees, it will probably be two hours or more before I can open the windows. Ah, to be walking on the beach at Santa Barbara, smelling the tar on the sand. I was there once, but I doubt I'll ever be there again.
Sunday Verse
by Mark Strand
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.
It isn't helping that it's eighty degrees in the house right now. It's even hotter outside although the sun is already setting. It's likely to be an hour before I can open the windows, and I'm considering turning on the air conditioner, although if I cool the house to, say, 78 degrees, it will probably be two hours or more before I can open the windows. Ah, to be walking on the beach at Santa Barbara, smelling the tar on the sand. I was there once, but I doubt I'll ever be there again.
Sunday Verse
The Night, The Porch
by Mark Strand
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.
