It was rather like winter today, though dry, and only late this afternoon did the clouds clear and let some sunshine brighten the landscape prematurely greened by the recent bout of misplaced spring. The rose bushes have lots of new growth on them, but the growth should cease for a time now that it is cold again. The three flowers they produced have already died, and thankfully there are as yet no buds prepared to produce more and be frustrated. I do hope the tender young leaves won't be bitten by any frost when upcoming nights drop into the low thirties.
A slight possibility of rain has reappeared in the forecast, but not until a week from Monday. We shall see. This morning the sky looked as though it could begin dripping rain at any moment, and the air smelled damp, but of course nothing came of it. It seldom has this year.
My back was slightly less bad today, which is why I decided to go ahead and do the shopping, but getting out did not improve it. I'm still looking forward to getting it adjusted Tuesday. Hopefully things will be better next week. I well need to buy cat food then, and the big bags have to be lifted from the bottom shelf. With luck I'll not only be able to do that, but won't suffer any relapse as a result of the exertion. Something else we'll have to see, though. Not entirely predictable.
by Jorge Luis Borges
One thing alone does not exist—oblivion.
God, who saves the metal, saves the dross
and stores in his prophetic memory
moons that have still to come, moons that have shone.
Everything is there. The thousands of reflections
which between the dawn and the twilight
your face has left behind in many mirrors
and those faces it will go on leaving yet.
And everything is part of that diverse
and mirroring memory, the universe;
there is no end to its exigent corridors
and the doors that close behind you as you go;
only the far side of the sunset's glow
will show you at last the Archetypes and Splendors.
In the original Spanish
Sólo una cosa no hay. Es el olvido.
Dios, que salva el metal, salva la escoria
y cifra en su profética memoria
las lunas que serán y las que han sido.
Ya todo está. Los miles de reflejos
que entre los dos crepúsculos del día
tu rostro fue dejando en los espejos
y los que irá dejando todavía.
Y todo es una parte del diverso
cristal de esa memoria, el universo;
no tienen fin sus arduos corredores
y las puertas se cierran a tu paso;
sólo del otro lado del ocaso
verás los Arquetipos y Esplendores.