Sunday, August 29, 2004
 

. . . and That Was When My Brain Killed Itself

Yep. Things have definitely started back. Yep.

I'm always embarrassed when people call me and ask what I'm doing; I always feel the impulse to lie and say that I'm doing something comparatively exciting, such as scrubbing shower tiles with a toothbrush or counting my eyelashes. The truth tends to be tedious: "I'm reading a simply fascinating article about reverse angle cuts in pre-1906 cinema! Thanks for asking!" Rather than being specific, I tend to answer with a generic "reading." "Reading" has been my answer to the watchoo doin' question for the past six-going-on-seven years now.

Which brings me to this poem, "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota," by James Wright:

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.



That about covers it for tonight, folks.

Elvisette philosophized at 9:18 PM