rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Twenty, Day Thirty-Three

As I had trouble getting to sleep Saturday morning and then woke up a bit too early, I ended up having another nap Saturday evening and early Sunday morning. Waking up in the dark always leaves me a bit sad, and the sadness tends to linger for hours. Not getting to sleep before dawn always makes me anxious, and it's after dawn now, so I'm both residually sad and newly anxious. There is an avocado shell and seed and a corn husk from a tamale on a dirty plate, so I must have eaten dinner Saturday ight, but I don't remember doing it. One thing I do remember from before I started nodding off was a few drops of rain falling from the cloudy evening sky.

I also remember that it was unpleasantly warm when I woke up in the dark. It was still equally warm outside, so I didn't get the fan turned on until a short time ago. That means it's likely to still be unpleasantly warm when I try to get to sleep this morning. The morning breeze is cool, and the fresh leaves of the trees across the bike path are rustling and gleaming in the sunlight. A Pair of squirrels are chasing up and down the utility poles. They must be happy that it's morning. I don't share in their joy. I just wish I were asleep already.




Sunday Verse




Crossroads in the Past


by John Ashbery

That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,
but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.
"That's silly. How can there be a wrong direction?
'It bloweth where it listeth,' as you know, just as we do
when we make love or do something there are no rules for."

I tell you, something went wrong there a while back.
Just don't ask me what it was. Pretend I've dropped the subject.
No, now you've got me interested, I want to know
exactly what seems wrong to you, how something could

seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong?
I'm sitting here dialing my cellphone
with one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovel
with the other. And then something like braids will stand out,

on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious.
We've got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house,
talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you know
that's probably what's wrong — the beginnings concept, I mean.
I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps some
sometime. We'd stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater

had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cards
drew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselves
sitting at the end of a row in the balcony; the theater was unexpectedly
crowded. That was the day we first realized we didn't fully
know our names, yours or mine, and we left quietly
amid the gray snow falling. Twilight had already set in.
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