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rejectomorph

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Somewhat Dampened [Oct. 30th, 2016|08:02 pm]
rejectomorph
Today's rain was more intense than that of the previous three days, but less intense than that earlier in the week. The bucket that catches the drips from the back porch skylight is only about a third full. We did get a pretty vigorous thunder shower (and three terrified feral cats) around noon, but after that the rain tapered off, and late afternoon was mostly dry. I could have gone shopping with little trouble today after all, but I'm glad I went yesterday anyway. I got some bread rolls at Safeway that they are usually sold out of by the time I get there on Sunday afternoons, and I'm very glad to have them. They are perfect with a bowl of hot soup, which is what I'll probably be having for dinner tonight.

The rain could continue for two more days, but after that we are expected two get four sunny days in a row. They will be sunny, but cool— probably too cool for the windows to be opened, but at least the leaves on the lawn should dry out enough that I'll be able to rake them. Right now they are terribly soggy, and dealing them would be unpleasant. A cool, sunny day will be a good time to do some raking.

My Idernet connection has not behaved too badly today, so I've been able to view the Id well enough to have become worried. There's some awfully strange stuff going on out there, much of it related to The Great Orange Hope. I'd rather not see any more of that tonight, so I'm going to avoid those social networks (which shall go unnamed) and go watch television. No English murders are scheduled for tonight, but there is English period drama, and that will do for now.




Sunday Verse



People


by Yevgeny Yevtushenko


No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.

Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.

And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.

There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.
Whose fate is to survive.

But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

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