rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

June Buggery

A program is defragmenting Butch, so I am using Gladys to post an entry. Gladys has already been cleaned up, and is running fairly well. The new (old) computer is still waiting for the spot on the desk, and for the rest of the files that are to be transferred from Butch. There's a good chance that Sluggo will lose his spot on the corner desk, as I might put Butch there when the new (old) computer takes his spot on the window desk. In short, things are still up in the air. The defragmenting of Butch began almost eight hours ago, after the fixing of his numerous errors. It is only a bit over half done, and will probably continue past midnight. Thus Gladys. Yes, all terribly tedious.


The shopping is done and foodish things are in the house, along with a fresh supply of the more important product, beer. There will be dinner in the form of a sandwich on a roll baked today (one of the nice things about shopping day) and there will be television and tomorrow there will be a refreshed Butch, and not long thereafter there will be the new (old) computer and my pace will pick up a bit. Right now my pace is slower than usual, due to the multitude of computer-related tasks. I'll be glad when this tediousness is over.

I've just opened the windows to let the cool evening air displace the day's stuffy hot air. As Gladys resides in the den the scent of jasmine is strong and will grow stronger as evening progresses. There is still sunlight on the trees, but dusk will soon arrive. It is already very quiet, as Sunday evenings are wont to be. The only activity in the back yard is a feral cat practicing his ballet, doing leaps and pirouettes as he chases the evening moths. Oddly, in a year of time displaced, it feels exactly like the first of June. I'll enjoy it while i can, as July is apt to come early.

Sunday Verse


by Carolyn Forché

Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him.

On the phonograph, the voice
of a woman already dead for three
decades, singing of a man
who could make her do anything.
On the table, two fragile
glasses of black wine,
a bottle wrapped in its towel.
It is that room, the one
we took in every city, it is
as I remember: the bed, a block
of moonlight and pillows.
My fingernails, pecks of light
on your thighs.
The stink of the fire escape.
The wet butts of cigarettes
you crushed one after another.
How I watched the morning come
as you slept, more my son
than a man ten years older.
How my breasts feel, years
later, the tongues swishing
in my dress, some yours, some
left by other men.
Since then, I have always
wakened first, I have learned
to leave a bed without being
seen and have stood
at the washbasins, wiping oil
and salt from my skin,
staring at the cupped water
in my two hands.
I have kept everything
you whispered to me then.
I can remember it now as I see you
again, how much tenderness we could
wedge between a stairwell
and a police lock, or as it was,
as it still is, in the voice
of a woman singing of a man
who could make her do anything.


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