rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


A bird got into the garage this evening, and Portia was chasing it back and forth in the rafters. The bird was too quick to be caught, but too stupid to realize that it would have to fly downward to get out the garage door. It kept trying to go up, and kept hitting the ceiling. I figured that eventually one or the other of them would get tired out and either Portia would give up the game, or the bird would get caught. I got tired of watching them pretty quickly, and went back in the house.

That was two hours ago. I went out a couple of times, and they were still at it. Finally, a few minutes ago, Portia decided to come in and leave the garage to the bird. I turned the light out, so I expect the bird will find a perch and go to sleep, thinking that night has finally fallen. Portia will be wanting out again eventually, and the bird will wake up when I put the light back on, and the game will probably resume. I now picture it going on for days, until the bird grows weak from starvation and Portia is finally able to catch it. While I do feel some sympathy for the bird, I suspect that this individual's eventual demise can only be beneficial the gene pool of its species.

Aside from this little drama, nothing much is happening here. Autumn has settled into a routine of warm days and cool nights, and I have settled into a routine of being vague and distracted. Perhaps whatever matter gets into the air this time of year has a soporific effect on me. I spend hours daydreaming, paying attention to reality only when it must be attended to, and then begrudgingly. In October, I always become a bit envious of Rip Van Winkle. While I wouldn't want to sleep for twenty years, a nap that lasted until spring could be nice. It might be nice to wake up and find that April was here. But then I supposed it would depend on what dreams I had. If, for example, I spent the entire time dreaming that spring was here, waking up to April might be a bit anticlimactic. I guess I should just go ahead and deal with the seasons in their due order. April will get here eventually.

Sunday Verse

Atlantis- A Lost Sonnet

by Eavan Boland

How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.


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