rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Day Out

So Saturday I went shopping, but only to one store as we got a late start, and though I got most of what I wanted from that store it was still an utterly exhausting and unpleasant experience. We're supposed to go to the other stores today, but I'm not looking forward to it. My Saturday trip was so exhausting that after I got home I had to take a nap, and then the nap, despite several interruptions when foot cramps woke me, turned into a seven hour sleep. I'm not sure how catastrophic that sleep will be to the shopping trip this afternoon, but it could be bad.

In any case, going to sleep then meant I didn't fix any dinner, and since waking up I've been too distracted, but I think I should make dinner for breakfast now. After that, maybe I can have another actual nap, and then wake up in time to hit the other stores this afternoon. That's something resembling a plan, anyway. It's probably a good thing I don't have a real life anymore, as it would probably be as screwed up as this pile of scraps is.

I suppose the good news is that I found a six pack of porter, of a brand with which I'm unfamiliar, so I don't know if it's really good or not, but at least it won't be one of the bland brews to which I've not actually grown accustomed, and probably never will. If I hurry, I can have one with my breakner or dinnfast, whatever it is, before sunrise, and technically won't be drinking in the morning.





Sunday Verse



What Kind of Times Are These


by Adrienne Rich



There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

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