52/59: Sizzle, no Steak

[rejectomorph]

So Sunday brought some rain, and now and then some wind, and for me some sleep again. No one was about, or I saw none, and after all the hours no plans were made nor any future discerned. The jaw continues to hurt, and biting remains painful, so all the food was soft and even then care had to be taken. But I am caught up on dishwashing, so when (or if) I once again become able to chew I anticipate no delay in cooking chewy things. For now, the weather being damp and chilly I find that soup with mushy vegetables or soft noodles is an adequate and appropriate repast. If the dislocation of my jaw was inevitable, I suppose I couldn't have chosen a better time to have it happen.

Nor could I have chosen a better time than Sunday afternoon for the furious downpour we endured around three o'clock. There was no mail delivery and thus I did not have to see a magazine now due ruined in the inappropriate mailbox. I hope my luck continues tomorrow, when more rain is due. Thundershowers, in fact, so I could be struck by lightning while carrying a sodden copy of Harper's back to my apartment. If I'm killed I won't have to dry it out. Something to be thankful for while my brain sizzles away to oblivion.




Sunday Verse

The Oracles

by A. E. Houseman

'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
  When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
  And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my questions to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
  The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
  That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
  But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
'Tis true there's better booze than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
  And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning,
  Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
  The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.