Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
2005-11-28 evening, 28 degrees and chill. 75 in Naples, FL. Okay, so I don't like palm trees, bugs bigger than me and I can't swim and being near water depresses me. Gosh darn, on days like this Florida don't seem so bad. Oh, and T.S. Delta (not Eliot) is Morocco bound. May blow things about a bit in Madeira y las Islas Canarias. When was the last time a tropical storm turned tail and headed for Marrakesh? Vince landed in Spain this year. That makes 2 storms! Just wondering. Anyone have insight on this? Read some James Welch, David Wagoner and Pattiann Rogers this afternoon. 2005-11-28 afternoon, 30 degrees. 44 in Fort Smith, AR. Not good to get stressed out by stress test! Have the thorium treadmill test on Thursday. It's my friend Kev's birthday, so I've aready told him. May not get to the computer that day. It snowed today. Not much, but it stuck to the grass. Somewhat warmer where my cousin Allen lives. 2005-11-28 before noon, 34 degrees. 54 in Jamestown, NY. Carol just laughed when I mentioned flood due to rain and warm weather after alot of snow. Maybe she is right. Afterall, Jamestown is a city of hills. Green clouds at 4. Hail at 6. Tornado watches and warnings. Nice evening yesterday! Richard Hagerman told me he has a new muse: Death. Ah, the muse that never dies! Read some Stanley Kunitz yestereve. Liked some of his later works: 'My mother's pears', 'Hornworm: Summer Reverie', 'Hornworm: Autumn Lament' (these two extremely emotion evoking when read one after the other). I liked the final couplet from 'The Tutored Child': My poor poor child whose terrors never cease, Here is my pity penny. Buy you peace. OVERHEARD "I'm going to come back as a rock. That way they can throw me at whoever they want and it won't be my fault." Vickie Goodwin. SENSED In this season of subtlety: red eye of the mouse, grey tail vanishing behind the box, plugged in somewhere I can't see; soft grey rumor of cloud; damp wet that has plastered the moth wings to the surface, legs wiggling when I pick it up; green light behind a cloud, the rush of wind, the whoosh. |