rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2022-06-26 04:19 am
rejectomorph) wrote2022-06-26 04:19 am
Reset Forty-One, Day Thirty-Two
Saturday evening I heard a cricket chirping for the first time this year. It was not very near, but not too far away. It's song ended not long after midnight. I hope it is back tomorrow, and through the remainder of the summer. I've missed the crickets.
As feared, I woke too early Saturday morning and was unable to return to sleep in the growing heat. I skipped dinner again, snacking on a few chips and the last of the sour cream, all finished off with a can of the cheapest beer. Save the better stuff to go with an actual meal. Later I opened a can of soup, and finished that of with a few crackers. It was more an exercise in nostalgia than a meal.
The things I'm running low on are increasing by the day. I will have the last of several over the next couple of days. It won't be convenient (end even then not very) to do some shopping until Friday, at the earliest. Probably at the latest, too. In the meantime I remain (yours truly) a deer caught in the headlights and twisting in the wind. That's just a feeling I can't seem to shake anymore. A portent? May be.
I'm not at all sure what this poem means, but I love it anyway:
Sunday Verse
by Bei Dao
a song
is a thief who's fled across rooftops
getting away with six colors
and leaving the red hour-hand
on 4 o'clock heaven
4 o'clock detonates
in the rooster's head
and it's 4 o'clock delirium
a song
is an ever hostile tree
beyond the border
it unleashes that promise
that wolf-pack feeding on tomorrow
a song
is a mirror that knows the body by heart
is the emperor of memory
is the flame spoken by
waxen tongues
is the flower garden nurtured by myth
is a steam locomotive
bursting into the church
a song
is the death of a singer
his death-night
pressed into black records
singing over and over and over
As feared, I woke too early Saturday morning and was unable to return to sleep in the growing heat. I skipped dinner again, snacking on a few chips and the last of the sour cream, all finished off with a can of the cheapest beer. Save the better stuff to go with an actual meal. Later I opened a can of soup, and finished that of with a few crackers. It was more an exercise in nostalgia than a meal.
The things I'm running low on are increasing by the day. I will have the last of several over the next couple of days. It won't be convenient (end even then not very) to do some shopping until Friday, at the earliest. Probably at the latest, too. In the meantime I remain (yours truly) a deer caught in the headlights and twisting in the wind. That's just a feeling I can't seem to shake anymore. A portent? May be.
I'm not at all sure what this poem means, but I love it anyway:
Sunday Verse
Midnight Singer
by Bei Dao
a song
is a thief who's fled across rooftops
getting away with six colors
and leaving the red hour-hand
on 4 o'clock heaven
4 o'clock detonates
in the rooster's head
and it's 4 o'clock delirium
a song
is an ever hostile tree
beyond the border
it unleashes that promise
that wolf-pack feeding on tomorrow
a song
is a mirror that knows the body by heart
is the emperor of memory
is the flame spoken by
waxen tongues
is the flower garden nurtured by myth
is a steam locomotive
bursting into the church
a song
is the death of a singer
his death-night
pressed into black records
singing over and over and over