| Displaced |
[Aug. 10th, 2014|10:16 pm]
rejectomorph
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Doing most of the shopping on Friday backfired on me. Returning from my shortened trip today I thought I had time to sit on the couch a few minutes before going to the computer, and I ended up falling asleep for three hours. I woke not knowing the time of day, and uncertain of the day itself, mistaking the pale evening light for morning. By the time I gathered my thoughts the east was brighter with the onset of moonrise than the west was with the afterglow of sunset. Then the realization that I was confronting a truncated Sunday night dismayed me, and I still feel disoriented.
The only good thing is that nobody is getting murdered on PBS tonight, so I don't have to watch television (I hate to miss seeing it when British people murder one another on PBS.) There is still watering to be done in the front yard, but it won't have to wait until eleven o'clock, and thus dinner won't have to wait until midnight. I'll have bright moonlight for the watering, and crickets for company, and I'll get to feel cool for a while. Dinner will have to be something cool, too, as the house is still hot. Strange how I feel sunburned even though I'm not.
Sunday Verse
Vigilance
by André Breton
The tottering Saint Jacques tower in Paris
In the semblance of a sunflower
Strikes the Seine sometimes with its forehead and its shadow glides
Imperceptibly among the riverboats
At that moment on tiptoe in my slumbers
I turn towards the room in which I lie
Setting it alight
So that nothing’s left of that acquiescence wrung from me
Pieces of furniture change then to identically-sized creatures
Which gaze fraternally towards me
Lions whose manes serve to consume the chairs
Sharks whose white bellies incorporate the last quiver of the sheets
At the hour of love and blue eyelids
I see myself burn in turn I see this solemn hiding place of nothingness
That was my body
Probed by the patient beaks of fiery ibises
When all is over I enter the ark invisibly
Heedless of passers-by whose dragging feet sound far away
I see the ridges of sunlight
Through the rain of hawthorn
I hear the human fabric tear like a large leaf
Beneath the claw of conspiring presence and absence
All looms fade away leaving only a scented lace
A shell of lace in the form of a perfect breast
I touch only the heart of things I grasp the thread
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