52/49: Wearing On

[rejectomorph]

Friday afternoon we got up to 74 degrees, and in the last fifteen minutes we've dropped from 55 to 53. I don't know what the high was as I slept through it, and then forgot to check that little weather notice down in the browser tray until a few minutes ago. I wouldn't be surprised to see it hit fifty before I finish this entry. I was up way early Sunday morning&mdassh; even way earlier than Edward Hopper— and trying to recall (with little success)a bit of what had passed through the sieve of my mind while I had lain semi-sleepless through the hours past midnight, and then instead of my notion to fix Saturday's missed dinner for Sunday breakfast, I unexpectedly returned to a state of exhaustion and found my way back to bed, thinking, well Saturday's dinner would be better as Sunday lunch anyway, but I slept chunks again and finally rose going on four in the afternoon, at last feeling something like I once felt when actually rested, though I don't expect that exact feeling ever again.

Goddam that was along sentence. Who do I think I am, Proust? Well no, since Proust had an actual, functioning memory and I no longer do. What I have is an unfixed Saturday dinner which I must now get around to at long last. No more delays, no more distractions. Not mentioning the rain that soothed my sleep, or the evening sunlight now breaking through the remaining clouds. Oops. No more mentioning (no, I mean it this time.) My life has become like a very complex movie I've come into in the middle (and do younger people now in these days of on-order streaming or anybody in the future even get that reference from the days of continuous shows in movie theaters? Probably not, but I don't feel like explaining it. I'm hungry, damn it, I want to eat right now1)

Oh crap, I have to cook. What a febdwebbling shlarp of stamptwaggle!




Sunday Verse

Sea Glass

by Carl Phillips

It's cold here, in the wind. Night fog. We can

leave, if you like. Moral landscapes, coming down
as usual to a foreground all agony, pursuant
joy, more agony, a lesson
                                         insisting hypnotically,
grass-like, wave-like, ever on itself —
                                                       this time,
it's not like that. The body is not an allegory — it
can't help that it looks like one, any more than
it can avoid not being able to stay. All along,
it was true: timing really
                                     is everything. I've

loved this life. If it's one thing to have missed
the constellations for the stars themselves,
it's another, entirely,
to have never looked up.
Some mistakes, given time, don't seem mistakes —
I'm counting on that; others, though perhaps
a little bit still worth being sorry for,
                                                       lose force,
we forget them mostly, or we say we have and,
almost, we surprise
ourselves, even — we mean

what we say: It's cold here. It's dark. Follow me.