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Brief Respite - Weather, Or Not [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
rejectomorph

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Brief Respite [Mar. 18th, 2018|09:09 pm]
rejectomorph
Sunday lived up to its name, and was also a bit milder than expected, which was a pleasant surprise. Tomorrow is likely to be much the same, but the next day— the first day of spring— it will turn wintry again. The only thing springlike for the rest of the week will be that the storms are expected to bring thunder and lightning, which is not at all characteristic of winter storms in these parts. It's going to get cold, though, and there is even another chance of snow next Sunday. Too weird.

Oh, this month's power bill arrived (it was sitting in the mailbox damp, because I forgot to go out and look for a couple of wet days) and though not as disastrous as it could have been, was disastrous enough. There will be no extra cash for luxury groceries this month. I did the appropriate triage on today's shopping list, so there is no new ice cream (which I'm sure I won't need in this weather anyway) and only cheap cookies from Grocery Outlet instead of the better cookies from Safeway. The Parmesan cheese got jettisoned, along with a couple of other enjoyable but nonessential items.

But it looks as though I will survive March. After that the weather should improve and things will get a bit easier, until summer's heat arrives. I'm expecting the fire insurance to be more expensive this year, since the companies will be looking to recoup some of their losses from last year's statewide floods and fires, so August could bring budgetary unpleasntry. But we aren't there yet, so no point in worrying about it. I'll just be a fiddling grasshopper for a month or two.




Sunday Verse



Making the Move


by Paul Muldoon


When Ulysses braved the wine-dark sea
He left his bow with Penelope,

Who would bend for no one but himself.
I edge along the book-shelf,

Past bad Lord Byron, Raymond Chandler,
Howard Hughes; The Hidden Years,

Past Blaise Pascal, who, bound in hide,
Divined the void to his left side:

Such books as one may think one owns
Unloose themselves like stones

And clatter down into this wider gulf
Between myself and my good wife;

A primus stove, a sleeping-bag,
The bow I bought through a cataogue

When I was thirteen or fourteen
That would bend, and break, for anyone,

Its boyish length of maple upon maple
Unseasoned and unsupple.

Were I embarking on that wine-dark sea
I would bring my bow along with me.

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