26 XI 2001 - 22:41 - fur1

I'm in a much better mood today; much of the anger has burned off, although the guilt and some sadness remain. I'm used to it by now, though, that I can deal with. It's when I'm angry, too, that it's worst. I need... psychic-Midol for those times, except God knows what I've just described. And so.

I don't have much to offer today. I actually don't have much to offer on any day, but today I have even less than usual, unless you want to hear about how my doctor is freezing parts of my foot with liquid nitrogen. Yeah, I didn't think so. This would be, then, one of my brevissimus entries, more like a place-holder, one that's here just because I feel a need to beat this emptiness off, you know? Except, no, it doesn't. Not much does.

And so I offer words that aren't mine to - well, to - I'm not sure, exactly. To you, then.

From the Rubayyiat of Omar Khayyam, 5th ed. (Fitzgerald):

43

So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff - you shall not shrink.

44

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame - were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcass crippled to abide?

Then, by Cavafy:

December, 1903

And if I can't speak about my love -
if I don't talk about your hair, your lips, your eyes,
still your face that I keep within my heart,
the sound of your voice that I keep within my mind,
the days of September rising in my dreams,
give shape and color to my words, my sentences,
whatever theme I touch, whatever thought I utter.

I have a rehearsal tomorrow during lunch, and perhaps an orientation after school, so I'm going to go now. (It would have nothing at all to do with the fact that I've got homework to do. No, of course not.)

fur, furis m. or f. thief