|Butterscotch woke me up underneath the covers.|
Still very stormy looking, although I can see a patch of blue. Idris/Ry/Wynonie/Elvis is messing up things on my desk. Janet is late for going to the Senior Center again.
|They gots no respect for the laptop.|
'Twas not a good and productive day. Besides the usual rounds of aging parent absence of meaning, I've another friend whose despair knocks me out. Not that I don't get that despair. But the hopelessness and general inability to reach someone in that kind of defensible state is very painful, as are the challenges it presents to those near and dear to them.
I tried to nap with no success. I tried listening to two different audio books with only minimal success. The day went by. I am still here. And I am going to bed. I am not even going to try to clean up this html.
THE SIN OF PRIDE
turns out not be a sin at all, but in the guise
Of self-esteem a virtue; while poetry, an original
Sin of pride for making self-absorption seem heroic,
Apologizes again and shuts the door. O Small
Room of Myself, where everything and nothing fits,
I wish the night would last forever as the song assures,
Though it never does. I make my way not knowing
Where it leads or how it ends—in shocks of recognition,
In oblivion deferred, too little or too late, consumed
By fears of the forgotten and of the truly great. Morning
Brings a newspaper and a ordinary day, the prospect
Of a popular novel, though it's hard to read. I write to live
And read to pass the time, yet in the end they're equal,
And instead of someone else's name the name I hear is mine—
Which is unsurprising, since all our stories sound alike,
With nothing to reveal or hide. How thin our books
Of revelations, the essential poems of everyone
Mysterious on the outside, but with nothing to conceal—
Like the stories of experience I go on telling myself
And sometimes even think are true, true at least to a feeling
I can't define, though I know what I know: of a mind
Relentlessly faithful to itself and more or less real.
— John Koethe, 1945. Published on Poem-of-the-Day on 9/20/17.
Thanks to SMS for his 3:15 am missal.