Reset Forty-Seven, Day Sixty-Seven
Feb. 5th, 2023 05:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSaturday I had to dig out my umbrella before I could go out to the mailbox. Afternoon and evening grew quite wet, though I put myself down for a nap not long after sunset and didn't wake up until after ten o'clock, by which time the rain had ended. It's been dry since, as far as I know, but then I haven't been checking the outdoors. I've sort of lost track of the outdoors this winter. Not only has it usually been too cold for me to spend any time out there, but I've grown so inattentive that I simply forget there is such a thing as an outdoors.
Once again I've gone through my milk supply too fast, and I need to arrange to get more. Back when I had pants and legs and un-swollen feet I could just nip over to Trader Joe's for such things, but these days I doubt I could get halfway there before foundering like an aged racehorse. They'd probably have to shoot me, too. There never was much of a chance that I'd ever be put out too stud. Dog food and glue was always my destiny. I'm just surprised I've been able to delay it so long. I guess there are advantages to being good at procrastination. Too bad they don't come with milk. And donuts. And fresh Oreos, because the one I just ate was stale. Ah, well. I'm glad there was something left, at least.
Sunday Verse
by Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
he fell into my arms and said
"sometimes god takes what we love most. he knows best".
i agree.
so I made up something as i buried his grandchildren.
i said, "god wants us to love him unconditionally";
to get too tired to be angry; to love him
the way my friend zorab goes into the niagara gorge
to look for messages in bottles. he hates god, but finds hope.
you get thankful for anything
he doesn't take: breath, sight,
memory, until they're taken. then you're thankful
for death.
such gratitude, taking everything for
granted, your ski-doos, your anger, sorrow;
even fear; you fork
over every feeling to him.
today i am thankful for anything,
even the cold glance of
those who do not love me. it's an experience.
my novice master used to say he couldn't be
hurt anymore. me? i collect every sight and sound i'll
miss in my final moment.
today i buried four children. i don't know what the weeping
was about; i held the
grandfather's head to my own, like a
horrified brother faced with an
unconditional god. it was like holding my own head.
his brain, his love, his faith, my own — and
doing what we do best — living in spite of him.
until he opens the screen door and says, come in;
the day of streets and leaves is over.
lay your head to rest, and put away
the likeness of the day.
Once again I've gone through my milk supply too fast, and I need to arrange to get more. Back when I had pants and legs and un-swollen feet I could just nip over to Trader Joe's for such things, but these days I doubt I could get halfway there before foundering like an aged racehorse. They'd probably have to shoot me, too. There never was much of a chance that I'd ever be put out too stud. Dog food and glue was always my destiny. I'm just surprised I've been able to delay it so long. I guess there are advantages to being good at procrastination. Too bad they don't come with milk. And donuts. And fresh Oreos, because the one I just ate was stale. Ah, well. I'm glad there was something left, at least.
Sunday Verse
he fell into my arms and said
by Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
he fell into my arms and said
"sometimes god takes what we love most. he knows best".
i agree.
so I made up something as i buried his grandchildren.
i said, "god wants us to love him unconditionally";
to get too tired to be angry; to love him
the way my friend zorab goes into the niagara gorge
to look for messages in bottles. he hates god, but finds hope.
you get thankful for anything
he doesn't take: breath, sight,
memory, until they're taken. then you're thankful
for death.
such gratitude, taking everything for
granted, your ski-doos, your anger, sorrow;
even fear; you fork
over every feeling to him.
today i am thankful for anything,
even the cold glance of
those who do not love me. it's an experience.
my novice master used to say he couldn't be
hurt anymore. me? i collect every sight and sound i'll
miss in my final moment.
today i buried four children. i don't know what the weeping
was about; i held the
grandfather's head to my own, like a
horrified brother faced with an
unconditional god. it was like holding my own head.
his brain, his love, his faith, my own — and
doing what we do best — living in spite of him.
until he opens the screen door and says, come in;
the day of streets and leaves is over.
lay your head to rest, and put away
the likeness of the day.
