Over the past however-long-it's-been-since-I-posted-last, I've had numerous little blog topics swim up into my consciousness, bask in the light for a bit, and then plunge back down into the deep waters of Stuff I Have Forgotten.
So while I've had oodles of spare time (mostly spent reading books and eating and watching Simon Schama's A History of Britain) I haven't really written anything, mainly because those swimming and diving ideas tend to dissipate in my enthusiasm level even more quickly than they dissipate in my memory.
Maybe I'm just in the doldrums: the semester midpoint, when the fresh ardor for classes has worn off, and the manic frenzy of finals has not yet set in, when the sky is gray and the sidewalks are wet and the only thing you really feel like doing is curling up with a long succession of mugs of steaming hot chocolate and books as thick as your rapidly expanding midriff.
And so, in a brief bow to mediocrity, let me present to you a poem I wrote the other day. Or perhaps the other week:
He holds the book one-handed,
other hand fingering a cigarette
which,
smiling,
he brings to his lips
as he turns a page,
back curved in a graceful arch
under which the book rests
like a door.
(And also, just so you know, I have not drowned from (the storm formerly known as) Hurricane Noel's potent fury.)
2 comments:
Yay! You haven't drowned! I heard up your way was getting...um...soaked. To say the least. All we got was a blustery, crummy day, which, come to think of it, was probably not as miserable as it could have been.
Send some of that water our way. If it had rained more than two or three times in So Cal this year, we probably wouldn't be burnt crispy.
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