rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Rainy Sunday

Given that I still sneeze frequently, and that my nose often runs or is stopped up, and that my voice has grown hoarse, and my cough more intense, I'd say that I do in fact now have a cold. The problem is that it otherwise doesn't feel like a cold. A cold makes me want to lie around in bed doing nothing, but I want to go out and do things, which today would have been impossible since it rained most of the time until late afternoon, and early this morning there was quite furious wind. But I still had a desire to go out. Maybe I just want to share my germs with the world. But sitting around was a drag.

Now I don't know how I will feel tomorrow, but I'm still considering making a stab at running to a Safeway on the bus. I'm not sure it's worth it for only the few things I need and could carry home by hand, though. And maybe by tomorrow my cold will feel more traditionally cold-like, and I won't want to do anything at all. I'm quite worried that I'll be totally housebound on the 26th, and will miss the Goodwill store's latest half price sale, which would doubtlessly make me imagine book after book I've sought all year flying off the shelves into the grubby hands of those less deserving of them than myself. I know it's not likely, but unlikeliness never curbed my imagination before.

It occurs to me that I should probably look for a thermometer at CVS. Perhaps I am a bit feverish after all, and just can't tell because my thermometer, ironically enough, got burned up. And why do I never remember to buy things before I need them? I wonder if I've gradually grown so sick with age that ordinary sickness such as a cold no longer registers as anything other than everyday normal? Something else to worry about.

Stuck in the apartment I ate my dinner for lunch, then made a couple of cheese quesadillas at dinner time, and now I am craving ice cream. I've got some, and some Kahlua to drizzle over it. On the other hand, ice cream might make my nose get stuffier, as dairy stuff of ten does. I'm tired now too. I've been awake since nine o'clock this morning and should go to sleep fairly soon. There are at least ten books I'd like to be reading right now, but reading from any of them is bound to put me to sleep in a matter of minutes. Viruses are so weird. Maybe I'll have weird dreams, like I did when I got sick when I was a kid. There's something else I'm supposed to do first though.

Oh, yeah.

Sunday Verse



A Dog Has Died


by Pablo Neruda


My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

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