I am thoroughly exhausted. My father stopped by today to help me with a few things around my apartment and take me to get a new thermostat so that I actually have control over the temperature in my apartment for once. We fixed lights, hung things, looked at paint colors for all the painting I still have to do, hung up my clothes (yay! I’m finally no longer living out of a suitcase!), and all sorts of other, boring domestic charges. Really, the most exciting thing we did today was eat our bodyweight in fries at Five Guys Burgers.
We got a lot of work done (or at least he did. I read the 4th Series of Unfortunate Events book and handed him things when he asked for them).
And my father has a tendency to pull everything out and list off like a million things to do and then just do the basic things (which were really his goal to begin with) and forget about the rest of the stuff until he gets another chance. Long story short my dining table/writing space now looks like this:
So… boring day aside… not much on the writing front. I also had a bit of insomnia last night and didn’t end up falling asleep until about four. There was a horrible dripping noise outside my window that will haunt my dreams for all eternity.
I’m sorry. I can barely think, I am so tired. I have absolutely nothing interesting to say. Here. Read some nice poems. Spent some time when I couldn’t sleep last night looking up my favorites. They’re lovely though.
Story of a Hotel Room
Thinking we were safe – insanity!
We went in to make love. All the same
Idiots to trust the little hotel bedroom.
Then in the gloom…
… And who doesn’t not know that pair of shutters
With the awkward hook on them
All screeching whispers? Very well then, in the gloom
We set about acquiring one another
Urgently! But on a temporary basis
Only as guests – just guests of one another’s senses.
But idiots to feel so safe you hold back nothing
Because the bed of cold, electric linen
Happens to be illicit…
To make love as well as that is ruinous.
Londoner, Parisian, someone should have warned us
That without permanent intentions
You have absolutely no protection
– If the act is clean, authentic, sumptuous,
The concurring deep love of the heart
Follows the naked work, profoundly moved by it.
Don’t Be Literary, Darling
Don’t be literary, darling, don’t be literary
If you’re James in the morning you’re Hemingway in bed
Don’t talk of yourself in the style of your own obituary –
For who cares what they say of you after you’re dead.
Don’t be always a thought ahead and a move behind
Like a general reconnoitring dangerous ground,
This is a game it’s better to enter blind
And the one who wins is the one who is caught and bound.
If you can’t be straight then just say nothing instead.
I’ll know what you mean much better than if it was said.