Seasons
These are the summer days, Clouds running with my mind (both sailing on the wind): I’m reclining ‘gainst a tree Dreaming up one-act plays These are the fall days, Watching the leaves fall Bearing my aspirations– The colors come and fade To a crunchy pervasive brown glaze These are the winter days, Huddled by the fire with my muse, It’s cold here; If I were an evergreen I’d have something more to say These are the spring days, Waking up one more time, And this is forever– Watching the sun Burn away the haze del.icio.us : Poetry
Vertigo and Perambulators
I’ve had three words on my mind all day. The recall of obscure vocabulary words is a coping mechanism that helps me through long hours at work. I even quiz some of my coworkers on their lingual talents. Here are the three words: ersatz, somnambulism, and perambulator. The only reason I thought of perambulator was because I was querrying Britt about somnambulism. The only difference between the two words is the prefix (which you knew, of course). Here is something more interesting than my bizarre coping mechanism. Perhaps you’ve noticed that I have come under the charm of a certain Czech genius. If you want to know the whole truth the fact is that I have become a raging Kundera apologist. Unabashed at that. The following words are from my...
White Stripes
I’ve been moonlighting this week covering an out of town friend’s paper route. If they have jobs in hell, this may be one of the ones available. Here’s a glimpse into what my night schedule has been for the last few days: 1. Go to bed as early as possible (though with the wedding fast approaching and all the the things aside from that that need getting done “early” has been about 11 pm). 2. Get up at 2:15 am and groggily pull some clothes on, brush my teeth and splash my face with water. 3. Leave the house (2:20 am). 4. Arrive at the warehouse and shuffle in through the automatic doors into a fluorescently-lit concrete prep area where I will collect my papers with a large metal paper-dolly and cart them back to a table so I can...
Of Rings
It’s wedding season. Depending on your season in life, chances are you have probably been to multiple weddings this summer–I certainly have. It seems as if all my friends (and yes, I’m included of course) have decided to bind themselves eternally to one person. By this time I’ve had my fill of pastoral cliches and bankrupt pontificating about 1 Corinthians 13. Not that the chapter itself is bankrupt–truth never finds itself in the red. Yet packaging (even stainless steel) finds occasion to decay. One particular profundity emerged from the latest wedding (which was yesterday). Mr. Sanchez enumerated about the significance of the Ring. The Ring has metanarrative significance as a token of power and authority. “Show them this ring,...
Boxes
I moved today. I realized that the bulk of my possessions are books Terribly sorry I’m obliviating rather than rebounding, but I believe I’ve got a bit of spring to my bones yet; my new study is coming together–it’s nice and cozy and tome-lined. I can really relate to how you feel about words. I am in love with words, yet I agree with Mr. Eliot (I bought a book of his poetry the other day) in believing that words are strangely burdensome and fail at articulating transcendant metaphysical reality or emotive soulish depth. If everything really is text, then the world is a boring, limited place.