First off ... February 2 of 2010 is a very special day. For two people, a pen and a photographer. I hope Olga lets up for the day and a little bit of Sunshine comes out. x
So while I look-up cute love type, puke inducing photos I am listening to stuff that reminds me of the fluff that I am missing, rather a lot, at the moment. This song is the song he played on my first weekend living with him as I jumped in the shower on a Sunday morning this started cranking out of the speakers. I was all soaped up and dancing like a bit of a tool, wasting water. How daggy were these guys.
I finished reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, was OK for a holiday summer read. Again, I need to reiterate that I am a book snob. I would just die if someone saw me reading Dean Koontz on the bus for example. The first 3 quarters were pretty page-turning good, however toward the end I think he wrapped it all up a little too quickly and conveniently, it was a bit blah. And did Apple sponsor the book? There were a lot of iBook references.
I need a break in between the next one, so I'm back onto my Penguin staple of modern classics. Cold Comfort Farm is proving to be quite good.
Now if you love post, getting post, posting post, licking stamps and the noise of the postie bike then this is the
blog post for you. I am in like Flynn. Check out the Happy Mail Exchange. While on letter writing, this is my poem for the silent poetry reading that is happening February 2.
Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Lastly ... I am the owner of new ballet flats. They were stupidly expensive, and I bought them on a whim (on a lunch break). Nice ... they sparkle.
And properly 'lastly' click
here to win this heart brooch ...
