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rejectomorph

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Forgotten [Aug. 14th, 2016|08:35 pm]
rejectomorph
The trees are receding into night, blurring together as shadowy masses as the sky dims. A lot of my memories are like that now. Sometimes I have a hard time telling one from another. In a while it will be hard to tell that the trees are trees, and not just darkness. I suppose memories will get like that, too. Right now it's hard to recall what happened this afternoon, probably because none of it was significant. There were the stores, where I bought very little, and the roads between the stores, which were much the same as always. It's all pretty vague.

Right now all I can think is that I want something cold to drink. Later, I believe English people will murder one another on television. Other than that I might as well still be sleeping. Portia would disagree, but only because if I were still sleeping she would not yet have been fed, and she doesn't like not to be fed. She herself sleeps most of the time. I wonder if I could arrange to be the cat for a change and her the human, if my life would really change all that much. Well, I wouldn't get any beer, and that would be a big change, but other than that.

It's almost time to start making a dent in this week's food supply. Maybe I'll remember that. Maybe I won't. First, that cold drink. It's still hot in here.




Sunday Verse



Young


by Anne Sexton


A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.

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Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2016-08-16 01:12 am (UTC)
Interesting poem, which I've never seen before. I like the yellow funnel of heat and light!

Any good murders last night after all?
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2016-08-16 02:49 am (UTC)
Three murders! It was the penultimate episode of Inspector Lewis. The last one ever will be next week. I'll be sad when that show is gone. But maybe they'll make another series with Inspector Hathaway.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2016-08-16 03:24 am (UTC)
I love Hathaway! It'd be fun to see what junior officer they'd saddle him with. Someone upbeat and perky, maybe. :D

Is Lewis still an item with the forensics lady?

Edited at 2016-08-16 03:25 am (UTC)
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2016-08-16 04:03 am (UTC)
Yes, Lewis still has a thing with the cadaver doctor. The final season begins with Lewis "temporarily" coming out of retirement to help with a particular case, then sticking around. Hathaway has been promoted to Detective Inspector, and does indeed have an upbeat and somewhat perky assistant, DS Lizzie Maddox, played by Angela Griffin.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2016-08-16 05:10 am (UTC)
Oh hey, she looks familiar! I may've seen this series. (How can that be? It's been months since I streamed any online. Hmmm. Still, her face looks familiar.) They're a wonderful combination of personalities, almost as good as the original Morse with the young Lewis. And always Max. :)
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