||[May. 6th, 2018|11:58 pm]
There was a cricket chirping in my back yard this evening. He fell silent when one of the feral cats drew near, and I haven't heard him since. The gloaming was already too deep for me to make out what was going on. The cat was a white form with gray gaps seen against the improbably dark green of the grass as he nosed about in the longer grass under a rose bush. I do hope the cat didn't find the cricket and eat it. |
The shopping is done. For a while it looked like I might have to put it off until Tuesday due to a transportation issue, but that didn't happen. Still the transportation issue is not gone, and it means the appointment with the chiropractor I had scheduled for Tuesday will have to be put off. I don't know for how long, though. It might be just one week, but it depends on how many openings the chiropractor has in his schedule. I hope it's only one week.
The balmy days are continuing, and we've probably seen the last of the rain until fall. I irrigated some of the plants in the back yard this evening, and will probably water more of them tomorrow. My sleep schedule is still catawampus, but might be stabilizing just a bit. That would be useful. Also useful would be Portia getting off of my lap when I'm trying to use the computer. Odds are neither one will happen.
by Julio Cortázar
And I know full well you won’t be there.
You won’t be in the street, in the hum that buzzes
from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture
of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile
that lightens people packed into the subway,
nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.You won’t be in my dreams,
in my words’ first destination,
nor will you be in a telephone number
or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.
I’ll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,
and I’ll buy chocolates but not for you,
I’ll stop at the corner you’ll never come to,
and I’ll say the words that are said
and I’ll eat the things that are eaten
and I’ll dream the dreams that are dreamed
and I know full well you won’t be there,
nor here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,
nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.
You won’t be there at all, you won’t even be a memory,
and when I think of you I’ll be thinking a thought
that’s obscurely trying to recall you.