rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Reset Thirty-Five, Day Five

Days seem shorter once they are over than they do when they lie ahead. When I woke up Saturday afternoon there were at least three hours o daylight remaining. There were also no cars parked on the property. A perfect time to do the laundry, I thought. Nobody's here. But I drank some orange juice, and checked the email, and went out back to listen for the mockingbird, then back in to eat the last cupcake and drink some iced tea, and when I looked outside again there was a car parked, and a few minutes later another car, and soon a third car, and I smelled soap in the air, meaning someone was using the laundry room. It's a curse that it takes me so long to fully wake up.

Other things happened, and the sun settled lower, then vanished, and the birds fell silent, and it seemed not long at all before I was looking back from late night wondering where the time had gone. I believe videos were involved. There was also dishwashing, and then re-dirtying of dishes with dinner, and some reading, and some thinking about making some plans to think about making some plans to think or some such thing, but it all seems so vague now. But looking back it seems to have taken no time at all, though the time has surely gone.

Now it is very late and there would be stars to see if the mini-metropolis did not wash them out with its lights. I should be getting back to sleep again soon, and when I wake up there is a good chance there will be rain falling and a relentless grayness, and probably some wind. I've set the thermostat to fire up the heat when it gets down to 68 degrees in here, which it might do today or might do early Monday. That summer that seemed so long while it was passing has turned vague, too, like some brief episode of fever. Did I live through that, or did I merely dream through one hot night that I was still alive? I guess I'll wait and see if I still get wet when it rains.

Sunday Verse

The Manger of Incidentals

by Jack Gilbert

We are surrounded by the absurd excess of the universe.
By meaningless bulk, vastness without size,
power without consequence. The stubborn iteration
that is present without being felt.
Nothing the spirit can marry. Merely phenomenon
and its physics. An endless, endless of going on.
No habitat where the brain can recognize itself.
No pertinence for the heart. Helpless duplication.
The horror of none of it being alive.
No red squirrels, no flowers, not even weed.
Nothing that knows what season it is.
The stars uninflected by awareness.
Miming without implication. We alone see the iris
in front of the cabin reach its perfection
and quickly perish. The lamb is born into happiness
and is eaten for Easter. We are blessed
with powerful love and it goes away. We can mourn.
We live the strangeness of being momentary,
and still we are exalted by being temporary.
The grand Italy of meanwhile. It is the fact of being brief,
being small and slight that is the source of our beauty.
We are a singularity that makes music out of noise
because we must hurry. We make a harvest of loneliness
and desiring in the blank wasteland of the cosmos.


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