|Chilled to the Bane
||[Dec. 17th, 2017|07:33 pm]
The air was fairly still today. Yesterday was quite windy, which I'd have found more enjoyable had it been a bit warmer. Wind chill on a chilly day is excessive. But the coming week, even if it doesn't get windy, could be worse. The forecast is now for a whole string of nights with freezing temperatures. This means I'll be emptying little round slabs of ice out of the feral cats' water bowls every morning beginning Wednesday. The days aren't going to warm up much, either, with most of them having highs in the high forties. Oh, the utility bill is going to kill me next month. |
I guess I was lucky yesterday's windstorm didn't take out the power or I'd have been awfully cold last night. And I guess I was unlucky the windstorm didn't take out the power, because I probably burned about three dollars worth of gas staying warmish. Tonight I'm going to try less heat and more blankets, just to get used to it because There's no telling how long the cold weather is going to last.
The one bright spot is that the brief rain due after midnight Tuesday into early Wednesday morning has not yet been canceled, and is no less likely (the chances are still around 70%.) And the low predicted for early Wednesday morning has been reduced to 29 degrees, which means if there is precipitation it will surely be in the form of snow. It's been a long time since we've had any real snow here, and I'd really like to get some, even if it isn't very much.
Now I'm going to go eat dinner, because this is one of those nights I'm feeling very tired due to insufficient sleep the previous night, and I want everything important over with before I collapse in a shivering heap.
by Rupert Brooke
Because God put His adamantine fate
Between my sullen heart and its desire,
I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate,
Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire.
Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy,
But Love was as a flame about my feet;
Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat
Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry —
All the great courts were quiet in the sun,
And full of vacant echoes: moss had grown
Over the glassy pavement, and begun
To creep within the dusty council-halls.
An idle wind blew round an empty throne
And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls.
Wow, the Rupert Brooke is gorgeous. I love the language of poetry but am pretty much a dimbulb as to meaning (it's why I gave up my English major after two semesters at IU). Is he saying God is dead?
I don't know much about Brooke, aside from the fact that he died during WWI. See, I should've kept my English major! I'd know about him!