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rejectomorphI keep tripping over the fan that I've got on the floor (positioned so it will blow directly at Sluggo's brain pan.) The fan also makes my toes cold. It does less for Sluggo, alas. I have also discovered something as a result of using the fans. The plugs of both have one prong wider than the other. When I plug them into the socket on the west wall, the wider prong must go on the right side. When I plug them into the socket on the south wall, the wider prong must go on the left side. I don't know which way is standard, and apparently neither did the person who did the wiring in this house. One or the other of those sockets must have been installed upside down. I've never liked this house.
Much of the night was computerless. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm not going to catch up anytime soon. The mail will go unsorted and unanswered, the spam will remain undeleted, the pictures will not be uploaded, the planned journal entries will languish in my brain, festering. Summer begins . . . tomorrow? I can't remember. I've suppressed it, I think. Oh, the horror!
Sunday Verse
by Gilbert Sorrentino
Out of a quiet mood of night
come women's voices, so far
away that they are the white
figures at the other side
of that dark lake in the picture
that hung in my hall as a
child. Now that I think
of it I know that they
were not people but sails,
perhaps? Or rays of light
the painter squeezed through
leaves of the giant trees,
but in my mind they must remain
people, lost in the swift
evening that bludgeoned them
and drove them to the little
light remaining in the shimmer
remaining on water, and what
were they speaking of, and
what were their names, and now
though I hear their voices in
the night all I can tell for
sure is that they are women's
voices, soft and white, wrapped
in white vowels floating above
the white gowns that cover
their limbs, lost in the rushing
darkness of the summer evening.
Much of the night was computerless. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm not going to catch up anytime soon. The mail will go unsorted and unanswered, the spam will remain undeleted, the pictures will not be uploaded, the planned journal entries will languish in my brain, festering. Summer begins . . . tomorrow? I can't remember. I've suppressed it, I think. Oh, the horror!
Sunday Verse
Silences
by Gilbert Sorrentino
Out of a quiet mood of night
come women's voices, so far
away that they are the white
figures at the other side
of that dark lake in the picture
that hung in my hall as a
child. Now that I think
of it I know that they
were not people but sails,
perhaps? Or rays of light
the painter squeezed through
leaves of the giant trees,
but in my mind they must remain
people, lost in the swift
evening that bludgeoned them
and drove them to the little
light remaining in the shimmer
remaining on water, and what
were they speaking of, and
what were their names, and now
though I hear their voices in
the night all I can tell for
sure is that they are women's
voices, soft and white, wrapped
in white vowels floating above
the white gowns that cover
their limbs, lost in the rushing
darkness of the summer evening.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-20 09:52 am (UTC)thanks.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-20 07:41 pm (UTC)