rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Eight, Day Forty-Five

Lately I've gone back to doing most of my sleeping in the daytime, which is going to be a problem since I have tasks coming up that need to be done by day. All the tiresome tasks what we call reality demands are like lumps in the seats of worn out chairs, and there's nowhere else to sit. I go on standing as long as I can, but my legs tire faster than they did, even while the chair lumps have grown. And I just know that eventually a tired spring is going to burst through the ragged upholstery and still have enough energy in it to gouge me a new arsehole. Maybe this will happen soon, maybe it can be held off longer, but sooner or later it will happen. But damn, I'm tired and really need to sit down.

Also, it's now predicted to get up to 76 degrees today. And 77 Monday. And then Tuesday it could rain in the morning. Things can get odd this time of year. All that snow in the mountains will soon be melting, too, and the reservoirs are mostly full, so there's no telling what will become of all that snowmelt. It depends on how fast it melts, and whether there is more rain during the melting process, and how much. Exciting times. And then all that stuff that's going to grow because of the abundant rain will dry out and eventually burn. This year? Next year? Who knows? Nobody. I don't know how much of all this I'll be around to see. But first those lumpy tasks.

I ate something a while ago and have no memory of what it was. That's a bit disconcerting. But whatever it was does not appear to be causing ay indigestion. I will not look gift horses in the mouth.

Sunday Verse

Lazybones

by Pablo Neruda

They will continue wandering,
these things of steel among the stars,
and weary men will still go up
to brutalize the placid moon.
There, they will found their pharmacies.

In this time of the swollen grape,
the wine begins to come to life
between the sea and the mountain ranges.

In Chile now, cherries are dancing,
the dark mysterious girls are singing,
and in guitars, water is shining.

The sun is touching every door
and making wonder of the wheat.

The first wine is pink in colour,
is sweet with the sweetness of a child,
the second wine is able-bodied,
strong like the voice of a sailor,
the third wine is a topaz, is
a poppy and fire in one.

My house has both the sea and the earth,
my woman has great eyes
the colour of wild hazelnut,
when night comes down, the sea
puts on a dress of white and green,
and later the moon in the spindrift foam
dreams like a sea-green girl.

I have no wish to change my planet.