52/123-124-125: Beastly Hot
Jun. 1st, 2025 04:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphMy brain has been fried for days, and it's not just from the heat. I think I screwed up Saturday when I failed to get to Safeway's web site and convert points into rewards before they expired. I'm not sure how many I lost, but it was quite a few. I don't remember much about the day, but it was definitely unpleasant, and I slept a lot and didn't eat much. I still need to eat some stuff I planned for dinner last night, before it goes as bad as my brain. I'm glad today is Sunday and I won't have to watch for mail. One less thing to try to remember.
The good news is that Safeway had almost everything I ordered this week, and the two triple-digit high days are over, with no more predicted until next Saturday, and I still haven't turned on the air conditioner even though the apartment got up into the low eighties Friday and Saturday. I was asleep through most of it, and was able to get the fan on fairly soon after getting up in the evenings. But the upcoming period will bring highs in the nineties almost every day. I doubt I'll escape the air conditioner for long. I just hope I can hold it off long enough that my $55 credit with the utility company will cover the entire bill for June.
As for my brain, I expect it will remain fried despite the slight cooling trend. It's probably a permanent state now. And I don't think anybody makes brain conditioners. Just hair conditioners for the outside. To fancy up the lid that covers up the mess, you know? Like those guys on TV, and the ones who aren't anymore.
Sunday Verse
by Richard Wilbur
Beasts in their major freedom
Slumber in peace tonight. The gull on his ledge
Dreams in the guts of himself the moon-plucked waves below,
And the sunfish leans on a stone, slept
By the lyric water,
In which the spotless feet
Of deer make dulcet splashes, and to which
The ripped mouse, safe in the owl's talon, cries
Concordance. Here there is no such harm
And no such darkness
As the selfsame moon observes
Where, warped in window-glass, it sponsors now
The werewolf's painful change. Turning his head away
On the sweaty bolster, he tries to remember
The mood of manhood,
But lies at last, as always,
Letting it happen, the fierce fur soft to his face,
Hearing with sharper ears the wind's exciting minors,
The leaves' panic, and the degradation
Of the heavy streams.
Meantime, at high windows
Far from thicket and pad-fall, suitors of excellence
Sigh and turn from their work to construe again the painful
Beauty of heaven, the lucid moon
And the risen hunter,
Making such dreams for men
As told will break their hearts as always, bringing
Monsters into the city, crows on the public statues
Navies fed to the fish in the dark
Unbridled waters.
The good news is that Safeway had almost everything I ordered this week, and the two triple-digit high days are over, with no more predicted until next Saturday, and I still haven't turned on the air conditioner even though the apartment got up into the low eighties Friday and Saturday. I was asleep through most of it, and was able to get the fan on fairly soon after getting up in the evenings. But the upcoming period will bring highs in the nineties almost every day. I doubt I'll escape the air conditioner for long. I just hope I can hold it off long enough that my $55 credit with the utility company will cover the entire bill for June.
As for my brain, I expect it will remain fried despite the slight cooling trend. It's probably a permanent state now. And I don't think anybody makes brain conditioners. Just hair conditioners for the outside. To fancy up the lid that covers up the mess, you know? Like those guys on TV, and the ones who aren't anymore.
Sunday Verse
Beasts
by Richard Wilbur
Beasts in their major freedom
Slumber in peace tonight. The gull on his ledge
Dreams in the guts of himself the moon-plucked waves below,
And the sunfish leans on a stone, slept
By the lyric water,
In which the spotless feet
Of deer make dulcet splashes, and to which
The ripped mouse, safe in the owl's talon, cries
Concordance. Here there is no such harm
And no such darkness
As the selfsame moon observes
Where, warped in window-glass, it sponsors now
The werewolf's painful change. Turning his head away
On the sweaty bolster, he tries to remember
The mood of manhood,
But lies at last, as always,
Letting it happen, the fierce fur soft to his face,
Hearing with sharper ears the wind's exciting minors,
The leaves' panic, and the degradation
Of the heavy streams.
Meantime, at high windows
Far from thicket and pad-fall, suitors of excellence
Sigh and turn from their work to construe again the painful
Beauty of heaven, the lucid moon
And the risen hunter,
Making such dreams for men
As told will break their hearts as always, bringing
Monsters into the city, crows on the public statues
Navies fed to the fish in the dark
Unbridled waters.
