It's Wednesday, and my cup of tea is not large enough
However, hilarity for the morning, because I saw this and thought, "Wow, that's a familiar feeling!" (I work at a children's museum, ok? The growing up thing is not working for me.)
And the poem from my inbox this morning, because I used to work for Longfellow National Historic Site, and my days were full of history, poetry, and references to the great thinkers of the 1800's:
A Friend’s Umbrella
by Lawrence Raab
Ralph Waldo Emerson, toward the end
of his life, found the names
of familiar objects escaping him.
He wanted to say something about a window,
or a table, or a book on a table.
But the word wasn't there,
although other words could still suggest
the shape of what he meant.
Then someone, his wife perhaps,
would understand: "Yes, window! I'm sorry,
is there a draft?" He'd nod.
She'd rise. Once a friend dropped by
to visit, shook out his umbrella
in the hall, remarked upon the rain.
Later the word umbrella
vanished and became
the thing that strangers take away.
Paper, pen, table, book:
was it possible for a man to think
without them? To know
that he was thinking? We remember
that we forget, he'd written once,
before he started to forget.
Three times he was told
that Longfellow had died.
Without the past, the present
lay around him like the sea.
Or like a ship, becalmed,
upon the sea. He smiled
to think he was the captain then,
gazing off into whiteness,
waiting for the wind to rise.
= = = =
And as distractable as I am this morning, I will probably later be stealing
inlovewithnight 's meme about twenty most recent first lines and doing that as well.
Finally--pssst! Hey Charlie! I passed a van yesterday on the highway which was labeled "Coppersmith's Historic Roof Restoration." I laughed for about three miles and my dad thought I was insane. *hugs you and a certain Maths professor*
And the poem from my inbox this morning, because I used to work for Longfellow National Historic Site, and my days were full of history, poetry, and references to the great thinkers of the 1800's:
A Friend’s Umbrella
by Lawrence Raab
Ralph Waldo Emerson, toward the end
of his life, found the names
of familiar objects escaping him.
He wanted to say something about a window,
or a table, or a book on a table.
But the word wasn't there,
although other words could still suggest
the shape of what he meant.
Then someone, his wife perhaps,
would understand: "Yes, window! I'm sorry,
is there a draft?" He'd nod.
She'd rise. Once a friend dropped by
to visit, shook out his umbrella
in the hall, remarked upon the rain.
Later the word umbrella
vanished and became
the thing that strangers take away.
Paper, pen, table, book:
was it possible for a man to think
without them? To know
that he was thinking? We remember
that we forget, he'd written once,
before he started to forget.
Three times he was told
that Longfellow had died.
Without the past, the present
lay around him like the sea.
Or like a ship, becalmed,
upon the sea. He smiled
to think he was the captain then,
gazing off into whiteness,
waiting for the wind to rise.
= = = =
And as distractable as I am this morning, I will probably later be stealing
inlovewithnight 's meme about twenty most recent first lines and doing that as well.
Finally--pssst! Hey Charlie! I passed a van yesterday on the highway which was labeled "Coppersmith's Historic Roof Restoration." I laughed for about three miles and my dad thought I was insane. *hugs you and a certain Maths professor*