|Too Much Fun
||[Jan. 30th, 2005|05:32 am]
I realize with some dismay that almost the entire month of January has passed, in the span of what seems like no more than a few days. The now clear night sky reveals that the moon has waned at least a third from its first fullness of the year. Another holiday marking time's relentless passage rapidly approaches, too, and soon it will be the Chinese Year of the Cock. How ominous! |
One of my more fey and frivolous personalities has been dominant tonight. I attribute this in part to the fact that I unwisely failed to resist a nap which sneaked up on me some hours ago, and in its aftermath, I have been unable to suppress an unwonted giddiness. Perhaps the cold air has slowed my blood and deprived my brain of needed oxygen. Whatever the cause, I hope that it does not prevent me from sleeping. At least, if I do not grow tired, may it let me simply pass out from the effects of a lack of gravity.
by Richard Wilbur
The Star System
While you're a white-hot youth, emit the rays
Which, now unmarked, shall dazzle future days.
Burn for the joy of it, and waste no juice
On hopes of prompt discovery. Produce!
Then, white with years, live wisely and survive.
Thus you may be on hand when you arrive,
And, like Antares, rosily dilate,
And for a time be gaseous and great.
What's Good for the Soul Is Good for Sales
If fictive music fails your lyre, confess--
Though not, of course, to any happiness.
So it be tristful, tell us what you choose;
Hangover, Nixon on the TV news,
God's death, the memory of your rocking-horse,
Entropy, housework, Buchenwald, divorce,
Those damned flamingoes in your neighbor's yard. . .
All hangs together if you take it hard.