52/182-183: Getting By
Aug. 10th, 2025 05:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphTwo hot days with uncomfortably balmy nights acted as soporifics for me while I was already out of sorts due to the disrupted plans for shopping Friday. Luckily there was nothing on Safeway's Friday sale that I wanted, and I was able to arrange to have stuff picked up Saturday, so it mostly worked out. My brain was suffering diminished capacity due to the heat and the disruption, so I forgot a couple of things, but there were only a few substitutions for the stuff I ordered and nothing had to be skipped, so I'm in decent shape for food for the next two weeks. The beer supply is getting a bit thin, though. Nothing I like has been on sale lately, and the regular prices of beer are just way too high anymore.
The temperatures are also being too high. The next few days are going to be the worst of the summer so far, but later in the month is looking a but better. It won't be quite as mild as most of July turned out to be, but it won't be as hot as August usually is. If the forecast holds I think I'll be able to get through the month with a utility bill below a hundred bucks. Such things are the stuff of satisfaction anymore, in my diminished state. I've quit expecting any sort of adventures again, and I doubt my brain will recover its ability to weave words into forms that bring me any surprise or delight, but now and then something I enjoy might turn up on sale at the store, a long forgotten song I like might turn up on a YouTube video, or the weather might be less unpleasant than I expect for a few days or a season. Small pleasures can do quite a lot to diminish the impact of aging's depredations. For now, at least.
Sunday Verse
by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
Music for when the music is over
Is what a poem is. There’s no music
In a poem, just the imaginary
Composer breathing beneath the deep wreck,
The curves of that glorious alphabet
Resilient as bioluminescence
Stuck in the seafloor. There’s something in it,
How poems pretend to sing. Like a peacock
Pretends in the wide span of its plumage
That there is no end to it: the far stars
Of galaxies and its ocelli gaze,
Gazed and gazing as one, the first fissions
Finally arriving to the listener,
Who makes sense of it sooner or later.
The temperatures are also being too high. The next few days are going to be the worst of the summer so far, but later in the month is looking a but better. It won't be quite as mild as most of July turned out to be, but it won't be as hot as August usually is. If the forecast holds I think I'll be able to get through the month with a utility bill below a hundred bucks. Such things are the stuff of satisfaction anymore, in my diminished state. I've quit expecting any sort of adventures again, and I doubt my brain will recover its ability to weave words into forms that bring me any surprise or delight, but now and then something I enjoy might turn up on sale at the store, a long forgotten song I like might turn up on a YouTube video, or the weather might be less unpleasant than I expect for a few days or a season. Small pleasures can do quite a lot to diminish the impact of aging's depredations. For now, at least.
Sunday Verse
The Peacock
by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
Music for when the music is over
Is what a poem is. There’s no music
In a poem, just the imaginary
Composer breathing beneath the deep wreck,
The curves of that glorious alphabet
Resilient as bioluminescence
Stuck in the seafloor. There’s something in it,
How poems pretend to sing. Like a peacock
Pretends in the wide span of its plumage
That there is no end to it: the far stars
Of galaxies and its ocelli gaze,
Gazed and gazing as one, the first fissions
Finally arriving to the listener,
Who makes sense of it sooner or later.
