rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

One Day Leads to Another

Saturday morning I ventured out into the back yard for a few minutes, it having been days since I last heard birds sing. The mockingbird wasn't there, but there were a few small, brown birds of the sort I can't identify but which emit cheerful little chirps, and I made do with those. I didn't stay out long, the day having been on the cool side.

Other than that the day was about the same as the last few. I still sneeze, I still cough, I still get headache pains when I cough, I still have to clear my throat and my clogged sinuses frequently and it still hurts a bit when I swallow, though that shows signs of moving toward my years, which terrifies me, as there are few pains I hate more than earache pains. If I get an earache I'll have to start downing ibuprofen, and hoping that it works.

Four days I haven't gone anywhere. I must either get to go somewhere soon or I will get to go stir crazy. But judging from how I feel tonight I doubt I'll feel like getting out tomorrow, though it is sale day on red-tagged items at the Goodwill store, or on Monday, which is storewide half price sale there. That's going to be disappointing. I'm also abut to be out of my favorite kind of beer, though I have enough other kinds of beer to last quite a while. Again, it's about disappointment. It's always amplified when I'm sick.

Mostly I've just been reading very light reading in between naps. My brain does not like to be strained when I'm not feeling well. I'm going to do some more light reading now, and eat some chocolate, which I'm also running low on. The nights are still feeling chilly. I haven't checked the weather web site yet tonight. No energy even for that. But since Sunday is about to start I'll find energy for this:



Sunday Verse



Meditation from 14A


by Jennifer Maier


And what if the passage out of this life
is like a flight from Seattle to St. Louis—

the long taxi out of the body, the brief
and terrible acceleration, the improbable

buoyancy, and then the moment when,
godlike, you see the way things fit

together: the grave and earnest roads
with their little cars, stitching their desires

with invisible thread; the tiny pushpin houses
and backyard swimming pools, dreaming

the same blue dream. And who but the dead
may look down with impunity on these white

birds, strewn like dice above the river whose name
you have forgotten, though you know,

having crossed the Divide, that it flows
east now, toward the vast, still heartland,

its pinstriped remnants of wheat and corn
laid out like burial clothes. And how

you would like to close your eyes, if only
you could stop thinking about that small scratch

on the window, more of a pinprick, really,
and about yourself sucked out! anatomized!—

part of you now (the best part) a molecule
of pure oxygen, breathed in by the farmer

on his tractor; by the frightened rabbit
in the ditch; by a child riding a bike

in Topeka; by the sad wife of a Mexican
diplomat; by a dog, digging up a bone

a hundred years in the future, that foreign city
where you don't know a soul, but where you think

you could start over, could make a whole
new life for yourself, and will.
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