April 17th, 2006


And there's an end to it, I guess

One of my LJ friends has been posting stranger, angier, more "out there" kinds of posts for some weeks now. I have been worried about him. I haven't said much, certainly have not been argumentative as his posts have gotten ever more emphatic in tone.

Today, I did finally reply to a comment I thought incorrect. I was not rude, but I guess he construed it as a challenge. He replied to my comment, then dropped me from his friends list. His LJ is now Private.


Hail and Farewell, Former LJ Friend. You have my best wishes and my prayers. I fear you are not a happy person, nor will be any time soon. Nevertheless, peace.

The Drunken Fisherman

Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye.
(Truly Jehovah's bow suspends
No pots of gold to weight its ends);
Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout
Rose to my bait. They flopped about
My canvas creel until the moth
Corrupted its unstable cloth.

A calendar to tell the day;
A handkerchief to wave away
The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm
Pouching a bottle in one arm;
A whiskey bottle full of worms;
And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms
To mete the worm whose molten rage
Boils in the belly of old age?

Once fishing was a rabbit's foot --
O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot,
Let suns stay in or suns step out:
Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout --
The fisher's fluent and obscene
Catches kept his conscience clean.
Children, the raging memory drools
Over the glory of past pools.

Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls
Its bloody waters into holes;
A grain of sand inside my shoe
Mimics the moon that might undo
Man and Creation too; remorse
Stinking, has puddled up its source;
Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage.
This is the pot-hole of old age.

Is there no way to cast my hook
Out of this dynamited brook?
The Fisher's sons must cast about
When shallow waters peter out.
I will catch Christ with a greased worm,
And when the Prince of Darkness stalks
My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . .
On water the Man-Fisher walks.

-- Robert Lowell

Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Bought a new pair of boots today. Only my fourth pair of hiking boots in my adult life. A big decision. Since my old boots died in London last June, I have been, like Brutus, "bootless."

But today, I wandered into Shoe Carnival just on a sudden whim, and there found a very nice pair of Timberlands. I was looking for Rockports, but all the Rockports there had mocassin-style toes, which irritate my tootsies. I needed a rounded toecap.

These are nice and light, genuine leather uppers, good stitching (though probably way too much glue attaching the sole). Anyway, I am no longer fretting about what to wear on our mission to Tanzania. (I had a sudden urge to post "Boots," but I'd already posted some Kipling for National Poetry Month, so I'll spare you the doggerel. It was one of my Mother's favorite poems, though: Boot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa, and there's no discharge in this war!)

EDIT: And the price was a steal!