So it’s come to this. I’m talking about people cutting off their feet. And to an audience of how many? one? If I’m lucky. When I started this weblog, I worried that I’d have nothing to say, and now I’m worried that I might be proving myself right. I don’t really care about a complete stranger chopping off his paralyzed feet for money, so why am I linking to it? Maybe it’s because it’s Monday and I’ve spent the entire afternoon typing equations, scanning pages, going blind from boredom. Yeah, sure, why not.
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One of the funniest things I think I’ve ever heard on television is “…from the writer of Armageddon.” Silly rabbit, I thought. Armageddon didn’t have any writers. So I gave that show, NBC’s Undercover, a miss and watched Alias on ABC instead. Pretty cool stuff…which, now that I look at it again, was written by a screenwriter from…Armageddon. Dangnabbit. At least the universe is not without a sense of humor this morning. Now if I could just figure out a way to watch Buffy: the Vampire Slayer when I don’t have UPN…
Oh, and I’m not entirely sure how I ended up here, but I want out. God bless that back button.
everything august is done with,
half forgotten, packed away in our closets,
the dresser’s bottom drawer.
october will be here tomorrow,
or two days,
half a week early but already too late,
outpaced by the cold,
outflanked by the frost.
we have seen it all too early:
the bundles, the blankets, the shuffling shoes;
shirt sleeves give way to jackets and fleece;
hands find their way into pockets;
the sun does not shine like it’s supposed to anymore.
i remember a month ago when i first saw my breath—
woke up one morning, walked out the door,
and there it was.
it was just novelty act,
and we lost it for awhile. we forgot.
we went back to sandals and shorts and open windows
and bags of ice for $2.99 to cool our drinks.
how quickly we forget how easily things are broken.
summer fades and leaves change color,
and it is cold now when the sun finally sets.
a week ago it wasn’t like this,
but autumn has rediscovered us,
has found us out,
and winter is on its way.
Peggy Noonan writes: What are we in the pocket of? An illusion, perhaps, or rather many illusions: that we must know the latest, that we must have a say, that we are players, are needed, that the next score will change things, that through work we can quench our thirst, that, as they said in the sign over the entrance of Auschwitz, “Work Brings Freedom”…
While it’s tempting to marvel at the prescience of the article (written some four years ago), to connect it with recent tragedy and see “ah ha! I told you so!” in its conclusions, I share it only because it is well written, because I lost track of time while reading it, because it is a distraction from thinking there’s something else you ought to be doing.