rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Today I was going to buy a box of gingerbread mix. Neither of the markets on this side of town had any. I would understand if they had sold out because gingerbread is popular this time of year, but they hadn't. They just didn't have any. Gingerbread, it seems has gone the way of the horse and buggy, at least in these parts. I don't know when this happened, but it has been sometime in the last five years or so. That was the last time I had it. It's available over the Internets, of course— if I want to buy a case of a dozen boxes, or pay as much for shipping and handling as I pay for the product itself. But the local supermarkets apparently no longer find it profitable. I'll try the smaller regional market that has a branch on the other side of town. One would think that, with all the old people who live in these parts, there would be at least one store still stocking gingerbread mix.

Anyway. I got a late start going shopping today, and drivers had their headlights on by the time I was on the way home. I found that those new LED headlights are piercingly bright. There ought to be some sort of filter over them. It's like having your eyes stabbed. But progress, I guess. In any case, I seldom have reason to be on the road at night anymore, so I guess I won't have the experience very often.

Other than that, and LJ being down for an hour or so, the day was uneventful. In other words, it was like most of my days these days. If it weren't for the Internets, cable, and feral cats, I'd probably be stiff with boredom. I'm sure that anybody reading this entry knows what that is like.

Sunday Verse

The Night, The Porch

by Mark Strand

To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.


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