Before I wandered into the nether world of the television, I left the house for a while to watch the night. Standing on the porch about midnight, I heard the soft clopping that told of the arrival of deer. They rustled the wild plum bushes along the side yard. Because the night was moonless, I knew I'd never see them unless I used my flashlight, but I didn't want to disturb them. I sneaked back into the house as quietly as possible. They probably heard me but, sensing no danger, went about their deer business by wan starlight. I was happy to leave the chill, breezy air to them. If I had deer's skin, I might be able to enjoy this season more.
Later, I spent a bit of time reading, and found something to post which, given the repetitive content of my journal most days, strikes me as singularly to the point.
by John Ashbery
Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.
Beehives and ants have to be reexamined eternally
And the color of the day put in
Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter
For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic
Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting.
Only then can the chronic inattention
Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory
And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows
That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge
Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.