Although it was hotter today, the heat is not yet oppressive. The oppression will come late this week. Today all I needed to stay reasonably comfortable was remain the the shade and not move around too much. That's what I've spent most of the time since coming home from the stores doing. One of the feral cats was pleased to have me for company as I sat on the back porch, and rubbed against my leg several times. It wasn't until later that I noticed that my pant leg was coated with fur, as the warmer weather has started the cats shedding. I suppose I'll have to launder the stuff Portia has been lounging on, and get ready for an increasing number of hairballs.
I must finish this quickly as I want to get something to eat before the English people start murdering one another on television. Our local PBS channel begins running the third season of Endeavour tonight, and after that there is something else English in which I believe a Frenchman gets murdered. Obviously some British wish-fulfillment fantasy there, but it might be interesting.
For the Sleepwalkers
by Edward Hirsch
Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible
arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.
I love the way that the sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,
palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.
And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.
Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music
of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests
We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds
and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.