Reset Thirty-Nine, Day Twenty-Two
Mar. 27th, 2022 03:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphI can barely keep my eyes open right now. Saturday I got little more than six hours of sleep and then no nap, so I'm quite exhausted. Arrangements were made of fetching groceries, but they are tentative. It might happen today and it might have to wait until Monday.
Again there was no proper dinner. I can't remember why, or what I did eat, but I remember I opened a warm bottle of beer by accident, so then opened a chilled bottle and put the warm open bottle in the refrigerator. Of course the second bottle then had to be drunk as soon as it chilled so as not to go flat, so I ended up drinking two beers, and no proper dinner with either. This has left me with a headache, and probably contributed to my exhaustion.
The homeless people who hang out on the other side of my back fence either have insomnia tonight or are having a party. There has been more or less constant speech over there most of the night. Fortunately I won't be able to hear them when I go into the bedroom, unless they get much louder than they have been. I really need to sleep. I hope my snoring doesn't disturb them.
Sunday Verse
by Randall Jarrell
A bat is born
Naked and blind and pale.
His mother makes a pocket of her tail
and catches him. He clings to her long fur
By his thumbs and toes and teeth.
And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting--
Her baby hangs on underneath.
All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night, and echoing back,
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,
Which way it's going:
She lives by hearing.
The mother eats the moths and gnats she catches
In full flight; in full flight
The mother drinks the water of the pond
She skims across. Her baby hangs on tight.
Her baby drinks the milk she makes him
In moonlight or starlight, in mid-air.
Their single shadow, printed on the moon
Or fluttering across the stars,
Whirls on all night; at daybreak
The tired mother flaps home to her rafter.
The others all are there.
They hang themselves up by their toes,
They wrap themselves in their brown wings.
Bunched upside-down, they sleep in air.
Their sharp ears, their sharp teeth, their quick sharp faces
Are dull and slow and mild.
All the bright day, as the mother sleeps,
She folds her wings about her sleeping child.
Again there was no proper dinner. I can't remember why, or what I did eat, but I remember I opened a warm bottle of beer by accident, so then opened a chilled bottle and put the warm open bottle in the refrigerator. Of course the second bottle then had to be drunk as soon as it chilled so as not to go flat, so I ended up drinking two beers, and no proper dinner with either. This has left me with a headache, and probably contributed to my exhaustion.
The homeless people who hang out on the other side of my back fence either have insomnia tonight or are having a party. There has been more or less constant speech over there most of the night. Fortunately I won't be able to hear them when I go into the bedroom, unless they get much louder than they have been. I really need to sleep. I hope my snoring doesn't disturb them.
Sunday Verse
Bats
by Randall Jarrell
A bat is born
Naked and blind and pale.
His mother makes a pocket of her tail
and catches him. He clings to her long fur
By his thumbs and toes and teeth.
And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting--
Her baby hangs on underneath.
All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night, and echoing back,
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,
Which way it's going:
She lives by hearing.
The mother eats the moths and gnats she catches
In full flight; in full flight
The mother drinks the water of the pond
She skims across. Her baby hangs on tight.
Her baby drinks the milk she makes him
In moonlight or starlight, in mid-air.
Their single shadow, printed on the moon
Or fluttering across the stars,
Whirls on all night; at daybreak
The tired mother flaps home to her rafter.
The others all are there.
They hang themselves up by their toes,
They wrap themselves in their brown wings.
Bunched upside-down, they sleep in air.
Their sharp ears, their sharp teeth, their quick sharp faces
Are dull and slow and mild.
All the bright day, as the mother sleeps,
She folds her wings about her sleeping child.
