rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Still Can't Complain

There will be a long wait for the moon to rise tonight. It will probably clear the trees by midnight, but before that there will be an hour or so when it will be tangled among the pines. That's when I like to see it, the silhouettes of branches making intricate patterns with silver light behind them. It will be colder then, but not December cold. A hoodie and jacket will be sufficient to give me ten or fifteen minutes of comfort. All I need to do is stay awake long enough, and remember to go out at the right time. With luck, there will be a feral cat about, willing to be petted, and I'll be able to warm my hands in its fur. Purring will be a bonus. If I get purring I might even stay out twenty minutes.

I don't know if there will be clouds or not. There were clouds today, and this afternoon one in particular that was shaped like an enormous Zeppelin. It made me sad, as it reminded me that I was born too late to see Zeppelins. I only ever saw the diminutive blimps with their advertising signs. I've always had the vague notion that having seen at least one Zeppelin would have made me a happier person, but that's probably a delusion.

And odds are that had I been born soon enough to have seen Zeppelins I'd have died sooner, and would have missed the Internets. Given a choice between Zeppelins and Internets, I'll take Internets. In fact maybe I'm a happier person for having seen Internets, though I doubt it. Most likely I'm stuck with whatever moods my brain chemistry provides, and there is nothing I could have seen that would have made me happier more than momentarily. Seeing the moon through the trees will make me momentarily happier, if I remember to go out and look. But I wouldn't complain if somebody in the world now had secretly built a Zeppelin and it flew over my house while I was watching the moon.

Sunday Verse

Wound Cream

by Brian Patten

Perhaps it is the way Love's promoted;
You'd think it came in a jar,
Something that could be spread
Over all that bothers us,
A heal-all, a wound cream,
A media promoted fairytale
Gutted of darkness.

Though its contradictions
Nail us to each other
And the hunger for it
Can be our undoing,
We still use it as a prop,
As proof we are living.

How hard to do other than
Give it precedence, forgetting
How friendship outlives it,
Commits fewer crimes,
Wears its name at times.


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