LET DOWNS AND EROSIONS

I finally gave in. I went upstairs to watch some tv. I tried to get caught up on The Walking Dead, but I am too fragile to watch anything depressing. So I watched the last two episodes of Men of A Certain Age. That was sad because it has been cancelled, but at least it existed.

Very rough for all kinds of reasons. I haven't been, but I feel as if I have had another crying day. Perhaps that is the nature of processing things. I hope that's what this is.

Some good things happened, too. The author whose book I am trying to option, wrote to me to ask me if I had contacted the agent (we have been in touch). I woke up at 7:30, actually got out of bed, and took my loop walk even though I was leaving the house later in the day and would do more walking then. I found two missing pairs of tweezers when I cleaned. I vacuumed! I read some French. And my friend Robert called.

John sent me a Seamus Heany poem in honor of it being December and all. This verse hit home:

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me.

The rest of the poem is at the end of this post.

So, I am going to keep this short tonight as it is already 9:30 and I am determined to find the winter clothes and get the humidifier cranked up.

I also took some very swweeeet photos. I'll save a couple for tomorrow.

Exposure

Seamus Heany

It is December in Wicklow:

Alders dripping, birches

Inheriting the last light,

The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost

Should be visible at sunset,

Those million tons of light

Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

And I sometimes see a falling star.

If I could come on meteorite!

Instead I walk through damp leaves,

Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

Imagining a hero

On some muddy compound,

His gift like a slingstone

Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?

I often think of my friends'

Beautiful prismatic counselling

And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing

My responsible tristia.

For what? For the ear? For the people?

For what is said behind-backs?

Rain comes down through the alders,

Its low conductive voices

Mutter about let-downs and erosions

And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.

I am neither internee nor informer;

An inner émigré, grown long-haired

And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

Escaped from the massacre,

Taking protective colouring

From bole and bark, feeling

Every wind that blows;

Who, blowing up these sparks

For their meagre heat, have missed

The once-in-a-lifetime portent,

The comet's pulsing rose.