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I'm having a bit of a morning. Let me tell you about it.
I slept through my alarm, and scrambled to get dressed and out the door. Of course, I forgot to swap out my ugly old white flip-flops for a pair of work-acceptable shoes, but that's okay, I have a pair of sandals in my desk. I missed the bus. I realized, as I was standing on the bus stop, cursing the bus that had just pulled away as I got there, that my top was on inside out. Backwards you can fix in public. Inside out? Not so much. Luckily, it is the shell of a twin set, so I just pulled the cardigan (short-sleeved, thank god) on to cover up my idiocy.
I arrived at work without further mishap, though there was the almost embarrassing incident of tearing up during "Wings for Wheels" (it came on right after "Thunder Road," and it's so interesting to hear the early version - it's not nearly as good a song in that state as it becomes with "Thunder Road," but there's something about that version that gets me - it's younger and rawer than "Thunder Road," but no less hopeful, and of course, it's live, which adds urgency).
Now I have actual work-related work to do, which is no fun, but at least it's Friday, right? I have to spend my weekend writing. I can do this. It's just a matter of will and determination, and sheer panic at an approaching deadline.
Have a poem:
Telescope Psalm
Am I afraid to be forgiven?
I'd have to wear nicer suits.
By the time everything is fair I will
have devised a system to send word
via the birds on my roof. But I am
of two minds about most subjects
and, in turns, one mind must elbow the other
who is snoring. That's why I thought I enjoyed
talking too much tonight at the brewpub
until the silence of the long walk home
made a better argument, better
company. The sky's library of stars and dust,
whatever is possible remaining possible
even as it's gazed at through the private
telescopes of an entire hemisphere.
It's now. It's not forever. And this
forever shall be true. To see further,
those without telescopes sometimes
cup their hands around their eyes.
~Paula Cisewski
***
I slept through my alarm, and scrambled to get dressed and out the door. Of course, I forgot to swap out my ugly old white flip-flops for a pair of work-acceptable shoes, but that's okay, I have a pair of sandals in my desk. I missed the bus. I realized, as I was standing on the bus stop, cursing the bus that had just pulled away as I got there, that my top was on inside out. Backwards you can fix in public. Inside out? Not so much. Luckily, it is the shell of a twin set, so I just pulled the cardigan (short-sleeved, thank god) on to cover up my idiocy.
I arrived at work without further mishap, though there was the almost embarrassing incident of tearing up during "Wings for Wheels" (it came on right after "Thunder Road," and it's so interesting to hear the early version - it's not nearly as good a song in that state as it becomes with "Thunder Road," but there's something about that version that gets me - it's younger and rawer than "Thunder Road," but no less hopeful, and of course, it's live, which adds urgency).
Now I have actual work-related work to do, which is no fun, but at least it's Friday, right? I have to spend my weekend writing. I can do this. It's just a matter of will and determination, and sheer panic at an approaching deadline.
Have a poem:
Telescope Psalm
Am I afraid to be forgiven?
I'd have to wear nicer suits.
By the time everything is fair I will
have devised a system to send word
via the birds on my roof. But I am
of two minds about most subjects
and, in turns, one mind must elbow the other
who is snoring. That's why I thought I enjoyed
talking too much tonight at the brewpub
until the silence of the long walk home
made a better argument, better
company. The sky's library of stars and dust,
whatever is possible remaining possible
even as it's gazed at through the private
telescopes of an entire hemisphere.
It's now. It's not forever. And this
forever shall be true. To see further,
those without telescopes sometimes
cup their hands around their eyes.
~Paula Cisewski
***