This morning from my bedroom I heard rain beating against the windows. Considering the temperature I knew this was not a good thing. Tonight the ball field across the street looks larger then life in massive white.
In the picture above, my bud Barry, maintains a stern view of things.
Started reading Pushkin's Eugene Onegin which my daughter brought home with her from school for the Christmas break. Considering her distaste of poetry I am intrigued that she enjoyed the book so much.
Haven't shared any journal bits for a few days so I'll throw some in this post...
- portions of the night are tattered/comfort estranged/rest could only be a figment of active imagination
- I looked at my left hand/traced the lines deep/into the country side/until I could not recall /how I got there
- strung together, we are popcorn/and cranberries- differences/flashing red lights do not exclude
- night is lax on standards/makes no effort to screen/leaving the door ajar
- there is one non sequitur/that echoes in your head/and loosens the bindings/of Webster's unabridged/joins the others as the new word for the year/the binding restitched all tidy