51/93: Seasoning
Dec. 15th, 2024 04:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphThe last full moon of the year rose Sunday evening, but I didn't go out to see if it was visible here. I'm pretty sure it wasn't. Although the rain has been slight and intermittent for the last few hours, the overcast never broke up all day. I napped until sunset, and woke thinking it was pale morning light leaking through the blinds until I saw the clock reading 5:15. I went out to check for mail and didn't even think to look at the eastern horizon, so it was undoubtedly dark there. Anything bright like a full moon would have attracted my attention, although the swarm of holiday lights festoon through the yard across the street would have given it some stiff competition.
I've remained awake since, and just finished dinner a while ago, except for the salad which I forgot to bring to the table and I am now downing along with the last of my bottle of Guinness. I'd soon be going to sleep, except I've developed a distressing sharp pain in my side, which I fear might keep me awake. Crap like this has been happening more and more often. I suppose I'll eventually have to break down and go see a doctor, although I certainly don't want one of those who think everybody should be made to live as long as possible no matter how miserable we are. I want one of those doctors one hears about who hand out addictive drugs like they were candy, because all I really want is for that shit that hurts to stop hurting, at least long enough for me to get to sleep, even if it kills me.
But enough of that. It should rain again late Monday, and early Tuesday morning, and then there will be four dry days. I've enjoyed the rain, and likely will enjoy it again when it returns next Saturday, but four dry days will be nice as well. Monotony is the real curse, a thief of what contentment may arrive. Variety may be a small thing, but I hate to be without it. That's why winter is easier to endure than summer with its relentless heat. Summer drones on, while winter can tell a tale. It officially begins this coming Saturday, but I can hear the first notes of its varied song already, in the wind that is now rising again. Now that's a lullaby.
Sunday Verse
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Let them bury your big eyes
In the secret earth securely,
Your thin fingers, and your fair,
Soft, indefinite-colored hair,—
All of these in some way, surely,
From the secret earth shall rise;
Not for these I sit and stare,
Broken and bereft completely;
Your young flesh that sat so neatly
On your little bones will sweetly
Blossom in the air.
But your voice,—never the rushing
Of a river underground,
Not the rising of the wind
In the trees before the rain,
Not the woodcock’s watery call,
Not the note the white-throat utters,
Not the feet of children pushing
Yellow leaves along the gutters
In the blue and bitter fall,
Shall content my musing mind
For the beauty of that sound
That in no new way at all
Ever will be heard again.
Sweetly through the sappy stalk
Of the vigorous weed,
Holding all it held before,
Cherished by the faithful sun,
On and on eternally
Shall your altered fluid run,
Bud and bloom and go to seed;
But your singing days are done;
But the music of your talk
Never shall the chemistry
Of the secret earth restore.
All your lovely words are spoken.
Once the ivory box is broken,
Beats the golden bird no more.
I've remained awake since, and just finished dinner a while ago, except for the salad which I forgot to bring to the table and I am now downing along with the last of my bottle of Guinness. I'd soon be going to sleep, except I've developed a distressing sharp pain in my side, which I fear might keep me awake. Crap like this has been happening more and more often. I suppose I'll eventually have to break down and go see a doctor, although I certainly don't want one of those who think everybody should be made to live as long as possible no matter how miserable we are. I want one of those doctors one hears about who hand out addictive drugs like they were candy, because all I really want is for that shit that hurts to stop hurting, at least long enough for me to get to sleep, even if it kills me.
But enough of that. It should rain again late Monday, and early Tuesday morning, and then there will be four dry days. I've enjoyed the rain, and likely will enjoy it again when it returns next Saturday, but four dry days will be nice as well. Monotony is the real curse, a thief of what contentment may arrive. Variety may be a small thing, but I hate to be without it. That's why winter is easier to endure than summer with its relentless heat. Summer drones on, while winter can tell a tale. It officially begins this coming Saturday, but I can hear the first notes of its varied song already, in the wind that is now rising again. Now that's a lullaby.
Sunday Verse
Elegy
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Let them bury your big eyes
In the secret earth securely,
Your thin fingers, and your fair,
Soft, indefinite-colored hair,—
All of these in some way, surely,
From the secret earth shall rise;
Not for these I sit and stare,
Broken and bereft completely;
Your young flesh that sat so neatly
On your little bones will sweetly
Blossom in the air.
But your voice,—never the rushing
Of a river underground,
Not the rising of the wind
In the trees before the rain,
Not the woodcock’s watery call,
Not the note the white-throat utters,
Not the feet of children pushing
Yellow leaves along the gutters
In the blue and bitter fall,
Shall content my musing mind
For the beauty of that sound
That in no new way at all
Ever will be heard again.
Sweetly through the sappy stalk
Of the vigorous weed,
Holding all it held before,
Cherished by the faithful sun,
On and on eternally
Shall your altered fluid run,
Bud and bloom and go to seed;
But your singing days are done;
But the music of your talk
Never shall the chemistry
Of the secret earth restore.
All your lovely words are spoken.
Once the ivory box is broken,
Beats the golden bird no more.
