inside the nooks and crannies of my heart
Apparently, all DC's weekly comics will end in March 2015 and they're not saying what will happen next. I don't even know. #dc look at your life. look at your choices.
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I watched Sunday's The Good Wife last night and wow, what a good episode. I basically loved everything about it. And now I want the crossover with Cap 2 where Alicia - perhaps via Pepper - gets hired by Steve as his lawyer during any Congressional hearings after SHIELD has been destroyed. And Sam and Natasha could meet Kalinda, as well. Someone should write that for me!
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So last night, Kyle Farnsworth got his first save as a Met, and I had the strongest urge to pick up the phone and call my mother, because Kyle Farnsworth is a dick and neither of us like him, and because she always appreciated being able to talk about the Mets (usually it was commiserating on losing, but sometimes it was being excited about winning). And I couldn't, and that made me sad.
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The Logic of Loss
There it is, the thing lost, found again
in the very cranny I first refused
to look, so sure my logic was
that it was in another nook,
where it belonged, the key, I mean,
in the key drawer with a dozen more
of brass, aluminum, miniatures for trunks,
skate key, clock key, rusty skeleton,
the obsolete set to the Ford LTD
in the scrapheap now or compressed,
reused for some new-fangled guzzler
(but I digress); to find it, I gave up
looking; then there it was, that key
to the lock box where I knew
the snapshot of my once-intended lay
along with some other old friends'
and lovers' fading Kodachromes
and curled-up black-and-whites.
I find it in that very spot
I recollect I chose myself,
the self, so easily deluded, that told
its self that it was a special place,
never to be forgotten. I can see
myself slip the key into the striped
Russell Stover's box, still filled
with small brown wrappers
that once held fine chocolates.
I swear I still smell the sweetness
of their caramels and creams
I tasted when I was a little boy
on some long lost afternoon,
suddenly brought back,
resurrected by a tipsy causal chain
to spring forward in the mind,
momentarily, reconstitute,
then recede, fading into specks
until there it was, the thing found,
lost again, the key to my first love mislaid
by the illogic of the brain inside
the nooks and crannies of my heart.
~Philip Miller
*
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/657035.html.
people have commented there.
*
I watched Sunday's The Good Wife last night and wow, what a good episode. I basically loved everything about it. And now I want the crossover with Cap 2 where Alicia - perhaps via Pepper - gets hired by Steve as his lawyer during any Congressional hearings after SHIELD has been destroyed. And Sam and Natasha could meet Kalinda, as well. Someone should write that for me!
*
So last night, Kyle Farnsworth got his first save as a Met, and I had the strongest urge to pick up the phone and call my mother, because Kyle Farnsworth is a dick and neither of us like him, and because she always appreciated being able to talk about the Mets (usually it was commiserating on losing, but sometimes it was being excited about winning). And I couldn't, and that made me sad.
*
The Logic of Loss
There it is, the thing lost, found again
in the very cranny I first refused
to look, so sure my logic was
that it was in another nook,
where it belonged, the key, I mean,
in the key drawer with a dozen more
of brass, aluminum, miniatures for trunks,
skate key, clock key, rusty skeleton,
the obsolete set to the Ford LTD
in the scrapheap now or compressed,
reused for some new-fangled guzzler
(but I digress); to find it, I gave up
looking; then there it was, that key
to the lock box where I knew
the snapshot of my once-intended lay
along with some other old friends'
and lovers' fading Kodachromes
and curled-up black-and-whites.
I find it in that very spot
I recollect I chose myself,
the self, so easily deluded, that told
its self that it was a special place,
never to be forgotten. I can see
myself slip the key into the striped
Russell Stover's box, still filled
with small brown wrappers
that once held fine chocolates.
I swear I still smell the sweetness
of their caramels and creams
I tasted when I was a little boy
on some long lost afternoon,
suddenly brought back,
resurrected by a tipsy causal chain
to spring forward in the mind,
momentarily, reconstitute,
then recede, fading into specks
until there it was, the thing found,
lost again, the key to my first love mislaid
by the illogic of the brain inside
the nooks and crannies of my heart.
~Philip Miller
*
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/657035.html.
people have commented there.