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we sat and watched as the moon rose for the very first time
Despite being happily vegetarian for 2 1/2 + years, cravings do occasionally arise. Mostly when I haven't been getting enough protein, and that's easily rectified. But sometimes I just crave meat as a comfort food, and there isn't really any easy way to satisfy that.
Last night, I would have killed for chicken soup.
The days are getting colder, and now night is as long as the day, and these are the things I long for to ward off the coming winter. I made oatmeal instead, which was close, and helped, but I still want chicken soup.
I also want blankets, and a fireplace, and for the heater to be just a little less sporadic.
It's the strange inbetween time of fall when the leaves are half gone, and the ones still hanging look lost and out of place. The world feels like a Keats poem, sinking as the light wind lives or dies. Despite the growing cold I love this time of year, the intangible wealth of associated memories, the weightlessness of strong wind and heavy skies and stripped-down trees, the urge to hibernate. I am less restless this time of year, and that is a good thing.
I'll regret it by January, but I even long for snow, right now, so long as I don't have to drive in it. Snow is lovely when it's falling; if only it would vanish on impact.
I spoke to Nadine today, which was jolly good fun.
My mother called and said it's possible she won't have moved before Thanksgiving. Oh how I hope that's true. It will only delay the inevitable, but is that so bad? I want only one last time in those walls, in those baretreed woods.
Read Yeats in the library yesterday, his lyrical works. Yeats was the first poet I ever really read, aside perhaps from Shel Silverstein. He's remained a favorite through the years, and few turn an image the way he did; for all his trevails in faerylands, there's an abiding earthiness to most all of his poems, and only cummings writes love with the same blend of innocent infatuation and aged wisdom. One of my favorite lines of his, from "When You are Old" - "...But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you..." - has always struck me as perhaps the most beautiful thing I've ever read on the subject. And because I can never quote just a line -
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face...
I can't think of a more poignant way to express the element of unconditional love. It's for words like those that I'm an English major. Speaking of which, I need to read Coleridge.
Last night, I would have killed for chicken soup.
The days are getting colder, and now night is as long as the day, and these are the things I long for to ward off the coming winter. I made oatmeal instead, which was close, and helped, but I still want chicken soup.
I also want blankets, and a fireplace, and for the heater to be just a little less sporadic.
It's the strange inbetween time of fall when the leaves are half gone, and the ones still hanging look lost and out of place. The world feels like a Keats poem, sinking as the light wind lives or dies. Despite the growing cold I love this time of year, the intangible wealth of associated memories, the weightlessness of strong wind and heavy skies and stripped-down trees, the urge to hibernate. I am less restless this time of year, and that is a good thing.
I'll regret it by January, but I even long for snow, right now, so long as I don't have to drive in it. Snow is lovely when it's falling; if only it would vanish on impact.
I spoke to Nadine today, which was jolly good fun.
My mother called and said it's possible she won't have moved before Thanksgiving. Oh how I hope that's true. It will only delay the inevitable, but is that so bad? I want only one last time in those walls, in those baretreed woods.
Read Yeats in the library yesterday, his lyrical works. Yeats was the first poet I ever really read, aside perhaps from Shel Silverstein. He's remained a favorite through the years, and few turn an image the way he did; for all his trevails in faerylands, there's an abiding earthiness to most all of his poems, and only cummings writes love with the same blend of innocent infatuation and aged wisdom. One of my favorite lines of his, from "When You are Old" - "...But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you..." - has always struck me as perhaps the most beautiful thing I've ever read on the subject. And because I can never quote just a line -
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face...
I can't think of a more poignant way to express the element of unconditional love. It's for words like those that I'm an English major. Speaking of which, I need to read Coleridge.
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In the Spring we simply must have a few poetry readings. We can take turns hosting them in our rooms! It can involve mass consumption of tea! (Of course we also have to have quite a few tv show marathons!!!)
Have I mentioned I can't wait to get out of DC and off the Picker Program??