Dogged

If I worked at it for days, I could not correct all the errors that I've found in those few dozen Wikipedia articles I've read. I did fix a couple of them tonight, since I didn't feel like doing anything actually useful. In between bouts of frustration occasioned by the sight of egregious errors, I went outside and observed the rain and fog. I'm glad the frogs are happy, at least.

Happy Year of the Dog. Remember, in seven days everybody gets to be a full year older (see the "Everybody's Birthday" section on this page.) If we'd followed this tradition in the U.S., I could have gotten legally drunk only a few days after my 20th actual birthday. I feel cheated.

Naturally, the Chinese New Year calls for Chinese poetry.

( Sunday Verse )

The Way it Goes

Camellias have begun to bloom, soft red folds of petals peeking from the hard, green buds. Aside from the pale purple flowers of the crazy mutant iris which has been blooming all winter, it is the first color to emerge this year. There was no blue in the sky, the tangled twigs of bare trees cast no shadows, and the gray hours passed quietly, undisturbed by any rain. Dusk brought the chorus of frogs to life, and filled the smoke-scented air with soft, cold mist. Days of drizzle lie ahead. The world has gone mild but dim. I watch the leaves molder, and think of old books. The camellias as yet leave me unstirred.