The sudden onset of wintry cold nights is driving me to huddle under blankets. I generally don't miss the wall-to-wall carpeting of the house on the ridge (the stuff is a pain to keep clean,) but when it gets this cold I do regret not having it, especially when I have to get out of bed and my feet hit that cold laminate. Not pleasant. I need to get slippers. I'd have gotten some a few weeks ago when Kmart had a sale, but I didn't find out about it until the last day, and then was unable to get out— something sleep-related again, I think. Its hard to remember details from that long ago.
The most important thing coming up this week is of course the half price sale at the Goodwill store on Friday. The forecast still says it probably be clear that day, but very cold (by California standards) at a high of 49 degrees. I've got hoodies to wear, but I miss the warmer, fleecy hoodies I had before the fire. Maybe Kmart will get some of that kind in this year, though I'm not counting on that Kmart even being here much longer. It's pretty close to empty most of the time these days, and I expect it will be included in the next round of closings. Chico's Sears is already long gone.
I'm going to post a poem by Margaret Atwood this week. I ought to have done it lat week, but forgot that the 18th was her birthday. No memory for things anymore. Even words are leaving.
by Margaret Atwood
The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.
Language of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.
The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave language, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouth's damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for "I" that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everyone that could once be said in them has
ceased to exist.
The languages of the dying suns
are themselves dying,
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.
Translation was never possible.
Instead there was always only
conquest, the influx
of the language of hard nouns,
the language of metal,
the language of either/or,
the one language that has eaten all the others.