Cozy

Random quote of the day:


“It is more honest to confess at once how little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture for the scholar’s library, but a book for the winter evening school-room when tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near . . ."

—Robert Louis Stevenson, from the dedication for Kidnapped









( Illustrated version. )

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

So this is it?

Food poisoning Friday/early Saturday; going through old boxes in the garage, the detritus of my life, and throwing big chunks of it away early Sunday; a skeery earthquake Sunday afternoon; driving to work this morning through torrential rain...I think it's time to inflict my existential poem on ya'll.

From the notebooks, December 29, 1999:


So this is it?

So this is it, the rest of my life?—
the dog barking distantly
at what he does not know;
the drainpipe outside the bathroom:
tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-ing;
the toilet whistling all night
that high, lonesome sound,
longing like the wind, but for what?

For an answer to the mystery
of why we want this incessant existence?
Or is the toilet's song about life itself:
the wanting of it as only inanimate objects
want, deep in their atomy souls?

The late night slamming of doors;
a disturbed thrum of distant plumbing
running hard, through the wall, up a floor;
a hollow thud of footsteps somewhere above.

Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut.
Yes. This is it.