52/34-35: Nappy

[rejectomorph]

Saturday night I went to bed around nine o'clock, like some punk kid who had to get up for Sunday school in the morning, and it was only as I was dropping off to sleep that I realized I hadn't posted a journal entry. I had gotten some laundry done, so the day had not been wasted, but I had not eaten any dinner either, so I guess it was somewhat misspent. I decided not to sweat it. But then I sweated something else, because I forgot to turn the thermostat down. I woke up just after one o'clock in the morning and turned it down.

The next time I woke up, about half past three, I heard rain falling. I hadn't checked the forecast, so it was a surprise. By the time I got up at eight or so the rain was over, but the world was still wet, and the sky remained cloudy. There might be more rain tonight. There might be more Wednesday. I think I'll probably sleep through it. I thought I might eat Saturday's dinner this afternoon, but I find I'm tired again. Sleep some more I guess. Sleep and sleep and sleep.




Sunday Verse

Night Piece

by Juan Ramón Jiménez

   The ship, slow and rushing at the same time, can
         get ahead of the water
but not the sky.
The blue is left behind, opened up in living silver,
and is ahead of us again.
The mast, fixed, swings and constantly returns
—like an hour hand that points
always to the same hour—
to the same stars,
hour after hour black and blue.
The body as it daydreams goes
towards the earth that belongs to it, from the other earth
that does not. The soul stays on board, moving
through the kingdom it has owned from birth.