The last day of July was slightly clearer than it's predecessors, and there were even a few distinct white clouds that might or might not have had anything to do with the fires. I like to think of them as just clouds, made of common dust and damp, apt to eventually drop some water on some fortunate place (though almost certainly not around here.) Someday there will be rain here, too, and I hope it doesn't wash the burned out mountains down on top of us.
For dinner I remembered I bought corn on the cob last time I shopped, so I boiled two ears, but then I only ate one. The other is still in the pan. I suppose I'll put it in a bag and refrigerate it, and next time I remember it I can microwave it. There's no telling when that will be. My memory is already microwaved. It's probably up there in those clouds.
I was sort of hoping today's sleep schedule would be more rational, but it looks like it won't be. Dawn is not far off and I'm not really sleepy yet. I'll try listening to soothing music on YouTube, but I doubt it will help.
by Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.