![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphI'm pretty sure there was a time when nights seemed real, and if I woke in one I always knew where I was and would calmly return to sleep confident that things would still be the same next time I woke. Now I wonder if my life hasn't been a brief dream I'm quickly forgetting, whoever I am, and that I need to figure out why I'm even conscious before everything, whatever that is, goes kablooey. Whatever kablooey is. Thank goodness it is usually a need to pee that wakes me, and as soon as I realize that, and that there is a room nearby with a toilet in it, and I can go there, then reality begins to dribble back into my consciousness. Like God is pissing into my mind. Then I think, Oh right, that's what it's about. So I go piss, and get back into bed, and calmly return to sleep confident that someday I won't have to wake up again. I just wish I didn't have this nagging feeling that there was a time when nights seemed real.
Sunday verse
by Billy Collins
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
Sunday verse
Dharma
by Billy Collins
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
