Reset Forty-Six, Day Nineteen
Nov. 27th, 2022 09:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSo Saturday's evening nap turned into a fairly long sleep, but I woke up very sad again. Maybe I had a sad dream and forgot it but kept the feeling. Whatever brought it on, it kept me from going back to sleep, so I got up in the dark of six o'clock and drank orange juice, then had some tea with a few cookies, and since then I haven't been able to tell if the ache in my stomach is because of what I put in it or because I didn't put enough into it. I'm going to try eating some soup in a while, and maybe then I'll find out.
Sometime today I have to make arrangements to go to the bank and get some groceries, which should probably happen tomorrow. There are bills to be paid, and I'm out of donuts and milk and bread again. When I was a kid milk and bread were both delivered to your house, at very reasonable prices, by guys in trucks. Rumor has it that many children of my generation were fathered by milkmen and bakery truck drivers. I don't believe I am one of them, but I have no proof. It's possible that we no longer have such deliveries because of these rumors, and the enviousness of the powerful union of the mailmen, who wanted a fornication monopoly. I wish they were back, though, as it would be very convenient. Hell, I'd even fornicate with those guys myself if it meant I didn't have to go shopping anymore.
But I won't be doing anything that interesting today, I'm sure. I'll just make out a grocery list and write a couple of checks and lick nothing more exciting than an envelope. Now I need to see if I can make my stomach ache go away. It's very annoying.
Sunday Verse
by William Strafford
You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or the silence after lightning before it says
its names – and then the clouds' wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, and Amazon,
long aisles – you have never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head –
that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.
Sometime today I have to make arrangements to go to the bank and get some groceries, which should probably happen tomorrow. There are bills to be paid, and I'm out of donuts and milk and bread again. When I was a kid milk and bread were both delivered to your house, at very reasonable prices, by guys in trucks. Rumor has it that many children of my generation were fathered by milkmen and bakery truck drivers. I don't believe I am one of them, but I have no proof. It's possible that we no longer have such deliveries because of these rumors, and the enviousness of the powerful union of the mailmen, who wanted a fornication monopoly. I wish they were back, though, as it would be very convenient. Hell, I'd even fornicate with those guys myself if it meant I didn't have to go shopping anymore.
But I won't be doing anything that interesting today, I'm sure. I'll just make out a grocery list and write a couple of checks and lick nothing more exciting than an envelope. Now I need to see if I can make my stomach ache go away. It's very annoying.
Sunday Verse
Assurance
by William Strafford
You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or the silence after lightning before it says
its names – and then the clouds' wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, and Amazon,
long aisles – you have never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head –
that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.
