rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Fallen Back

The rain found the house but found no way through the roof. So far, so not too bad. The shopping trip was wet, though, and my shoes got soaked. They are not rain-resistant shoes. Also the soles get quite slippery when wet. Fortunately I failed to fall down, and successfully acquired various products for consumption later this week.

Some squishing in the shoe region was involved in this acquisition, of course. But more annoying was the discovery that the store was out of my favorite beer, and I had to settle for my second choice. The lack of my favorite beer (a primary source of consolation when things go wrong) has left me semi-inconsolable for the lack of my favorite beer.

After I arrived home, lightning and hail also arrived, and thunder distressed the cat, but there was no loss of electricity and dinner was available on time, and was only slightly less pleasurable for being accompanied by my merely second-favorite beer. On the whole, a tolerable Sunday, but not a fine one, nor even a memorable one.

The early arrival of night this first evening of standard time annoyed me, as always. Not having spare shoes to substitute for the wet ones annoyed me more, which means that the arrival of standard time was also less annoying than the absence of my favorite beer. I'm working on forgetting the day, but won't have to work very hard, due to it having not been memorable. A small favor, but welcome.

I'll make a fresh batch of brownies, I think, for additional semi-consolation. I hope the feral cats are not soaked. I'm sure that would be more unpleasant for them than destabilized clocks, squishy shoes, and less-than-perfect beer are for me.

Sunday Verse

Make Big Money At Home!
Write Poems In Spare Time!

by Howard Nemerov

Oliver wanted to write about reality.
He sat before a wooden table,
He poised his wooden pencil
Above his pad of wooden paper,
And attempted to think about agony
And history, and the meaning of history,
And all stuff like that there.

Suddenly this wooden thought got into his head:
A Tree. That's all, no more than that,
Just one tree, not even a note
As to whether it was deciduous
Or evergreen, or even where it stood.
Still, because it came unbidden,
It was inspiration, and had to be dealt with.

Oliver hoped that this particular tree
Would turn out to be fashionable,
The axle of the universe, maybe,
Or some other mythologically
Respectable tree-contraption
With dryads, or having to do
With the knowledge of Good and Evil, and the Fall.

"A Tree," he wrote down with his wooden pencil
Upon his pad of wooden paper
Supported by the wooden table.
And while he sat there waiting
For what would come next to come next,
The whole wooden house began to become
Silent, particularly silent, sinisterly so.


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