Reset Forty-Eight, Day Twenty-Six

[rejectomorph]

So I remembered some dreams I had Saturday, for quite a while, and I thought I'd remember them longer, but apparently not. They were mixed in with ordinary worry such as I have when I wake up but can't get out of bed because I'm still exhausted. I thought about them for quite a wile, and was sure they had been imprinted on my memory, but now I find they are gone. Not even fragments remain. I do recall that I found them rather disturbing but not really horrifying. I don't even remember which sleep they came with; the morning sleep that lasted about four hours or the longer evening sleep that ended around midnight. Were they nightmares or daymares? Simply mares, I guess. If wishes were mares, beggars could dream themselves to terrible death.

The only clear image Saturday left me is when I had to toss some coffee grounds out and opened the back door as rain came down, and to my surprise I heard the mockingbird singing somewhere in the mass of bush that has all but consumed my tiny back yard. I didn't leave the door open to listen as it was too chilly out there. My skin has grown more sensitive to cold lately, especially on my legs, and I try to keep them as warm as possible to minimize the allodynia. Also need to not stand on them for too long. One thing after another. Old age bites.

A lot of places in California are under water right now, but so far the mini-metropolis has escaped any flooding (that I know of.) There was some flooding in January, but nothing like the April, 2019 flood. Plenty of time ahead, though. The rain over the next couple of days is going to be a bit warmer, and the snow pack in the mountains is very deep, so there could be melting and consequent floods. And spring is still to come. Good times. And speaking of times, I forgot that daylight time began tonight, so I'm up even later than I'd expected to be. It's a good thing my brain is broken or I'd be upset. Instead I'm just annoyed. I'll go back to sleep now, if I can. Perchance to dream.




Sunday Verse

Lot's Wife

by Anna Akhmatova


The just man followed then his angel guide
Where he strode on the black highway, hulking and bright;
But a wild grief in his wife's bosom cried,
Look back, it is not too late for a last sight

Of the red towers of your native Sodom, the square
Where once you sang, the gardens you shall mourn,
And the tall house with empty windows where
You loved your husband and your babes were born.

She turned, and looking on the bitter view
Her eyes were welded shut by mortal pain;
Into transparent salt her body grew,
And her quick feet were rooted in the plain.

Who would waste tears upon her? Is she not
The least of our losses, this unhappy wife?
Yet in my heart she will not be forgot
Who, for a single glance, gave up her life.

–translated by Richard Wilbur