I was half-way crucified
"So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better."
--excerpt from "Birches" by Robert Frost
There are other poems that are better written, other poets whose words are wrought in a superior pattern. But right now, this is exactly what I feel. Earlier I made myself a pot of watery couscous and watched cartoons in my empty common room. Characteristically, I'd forgotten to remove the sticker from the bottom of the pot before putting it on the range, so everything smelled and tasted vaguely of singed adhesive and yummy carcinogens. The two papers I have yet to write loomed over my head (or perhaps the present tense of "loom" is more appropriate in this case). But I realized, sitting there, that I was happy. At least in the moment.
I'm so glad to be approaching Thanksgiving, that first great test where everyone returns to each other, sniffs around, takes stock. Assessing and cataloging all of the infinitesimal shifts and permutations that have taken place.
Why is it always freezing in this room? I'm going to start setting things on fire if the temperature doesn't increase.
Hey everybody.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better."
--excerpt from "Birches" by Robert Frost
There are other poems that are better written, other poets whose words are wrought in a superior pattern. But right now, this is exactly what I feel. Earlier I made myself a pot of watery couscous and watched cartoons in my empty common room. Characteristically, I'd forgotten to remove the sticker from the bottom of the pot before putting it on the range, so everything smelled and tasted vaguely of singed adhesive and yummy carcinogens. The two papers I have yet to write loomed over my head (or perhaps the present tense of "loom" is more appropriate in this case). But I realized, sitting there, that I was happy. At least in the moment.
I'm so glad to be approaching Thanksgiving, that first great test where everyone returns to each other, sniffs around, takes stock. Assessing and cataloging all of the infinitesimal shifts and permutations that have taken place.
Why is it always freezing in this room? I'm going to start setting things on fire if the temperature doesn't increase.
Hey everybody.