Soon I'll have to be rushing to get home before dark when I go shopping. Short days are inconvenient, but the coolness is such a nice change from the torrid days of summer that I don't mind the inconvenience... at least for the first few weeks. By November I'm sure I'll be complaining about there not being enough daylight hours in the day.
Today I bought bologna. It was on sale, as was white bread, which I rarely buy. Bologna I haven't bought in decades. Seeing the ad for the big sausage induced a bout of nostalgia, as when I was a kid I used to get bologna sandwiches for lunch, and I would go to the little store up the hill and around the corner where the storekeeper would take the big chunk from the deli case and carve slices from it, which were then weighed and wrapped in butcher paper with the price scrawled on it in grease pencil. The packaged stuff I bought today lacks that touch of romance, and probably doesn't even taste like the bologna I got then, but in the absence of a time machine it's probably the best I can do.
The English people who probably won't be murdering each other on television tonight are pretending to be Dutch, but I'm going to watch them anyway. I'm not sure when murder will return to the Sunday night PBS lineup, but there have been English (and Australian) murders on Saturday nights for a while now, and that will see me through I'm sure. And the Sunday costume drama is not so bad, after all. Still, I'll be glad when the murder returns. It's especially important on those long winter nights that are on their way. Is there anything as cheerful on a cold night as an Englishman committing a heinous crime? I think not.
The More Modest the Definition of Heaven, the Oftener We're There
by Albert Goldbarth
Years later they let him go. New evidence
—somebody's shoe and a letter, and then
another man confessed. So along with the cheap gray suit
and job ads that they all receive, he
had a brief note of apology. I suppose some people
go wild or bitter. But this is what happened to him:
we're sitting up way past midnight in August,
the six of us, hoping for a breeze. The air
might move in a solid block,as if pushed
by a streetsweeper's broom, but you couldn't call it
a breeze. Hot isn't the word. The stars
only make the sky a sore throat. And one of us,
Sally maybe, says we must be dead because
it's hell for sure, and the rest of us laugh, but
he's been called far out of our bent little circle,
you can tell by his eyes, they're filled with the moon,
with the simple delight of seeing the moon touch all of us
all over without a bar in the way,
without the shadow of even one bar
to fall on the light like a nightstick.