52/08: Eighty

[rejectomorph]

Just about time for me to complete one more of too many trips around that star out there (the one this place is currently turning its backside on. I think of it as mooning the sun.) I was preparing to prepare a dinner a while ago, but got distracted by a bag of chips and ate a bunch of those, taking the edge off my appetite. My appetite has never been very edgy to begin with, so it's likely I won't want to eat again for some time, and meantime I'm getting tired and will probably nap, and these days my evening naps have a way of turning into actual nights of sleep. Today I also grew myself a headache, annoying and familiar, reminding me of all I should not miss, should consciousness linger untimely.




Sunday verse

Happiness...

by Bruce Dawe


Happiness is the art of being broken
With least sound. The old, whom circumstance
Has ground smooth as green bottle-glass
On the sea’s furious grindstone, very often
Practise it to perfection. (For them, death
Is the one definitive shrug
In an infinite series, all prior gestures
Take relevance from this, as much express
Sorrow for stiff canary or cold son.)

Always the first fragmentation
Stirs us to fear... Beyond that point
We learn where we belong, in what uncaring
Complex depths we roll, lashed by light,
Tumbling in anemone-dazzled fathoms
Seek innocence in surrender,
Senility an ironic act of charity
Easing the agony of disparateness until
That day when, all identity lost, we serve
As curios for children roaming beaches,
Makeshift monocles through which they view
The same green transitory world we also knew.