poetry

There's always some saving grace in poetry.
And that is something nice.

Yours truly.
M.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

...you see, the thing is

Ahh, I did some daydreaming today...

It will be called plan 43.

And it includes A., a NYC loft, or a townhouse, and the Met, of course.
And dogs who will have to stay in the servants' quarters (HA),
and cats who can remain in front of the fire.
Cats hypo-allergenic, and otherwise.

A. will be a professor of something ÜBERinteresting. And she will have just returned from an expedition to either Pole. Doesn't really matter which one.
On this expedition she will have met a guy, who turns out to be quarter-Icelandic. But a lifelong Newyorker. Doing a PhD in something ineffably cool. So her visit does not only include seeing me, but going on scarf-and-coffee filled walks with this guy, in Central Park. Of course.
And I will be in New York singing the Met Autumn/Winter season. Doing a REALLY good production of Lucia. And I mean, really good.
And we'll be there, in some sort of a rented accommodation. So we'll be there, in the library, which holds a fireplace and a grand piano, sitting on the sofa, napping. That is A. will be napping, I'll be sat behind the piano, going over some part of the score.
A's nap is due to the fact we will have just finished dinner, followed by cheese. And it's the cheese that will have created this nap-time.
And it will be nearing Christmas.
And I'll be wearing really world-class socks. This is of utmost importance.
And then some sort of a man, in a loose tie, will arrive home from whatever work business whatever, wherever. But he'll arrive.
And then after the opening night, we will all go to a Russian restaurant. It will have to be around midnight because I doubt I'll get out of the Met before that.
And I will order of course - cause it's from my hood.
And we'll walk home - cause it's just across the Park. Of course.

DAYDREAMING
M.

a perfect day for daydreaming

And laundry.
A perfect day for laundry. Hottest day of the year in London, but there is still a little breeze. So I hung all the washing out. Perfect day for laundry.

My head is full of mixed German and French phrases. Ferocious learning for the summer course tomorrow. Hrvatska was too delicious for working.

A perfect day for daydreaming. About cold coffee, and singing, and The Perfect Date, and the sea, and being home, oh, and finding a cheap flight, and fresh fish (!) and ...I think that's all really. If I daydream about anything else, I'll update.

I've heard the ice-cream truck at least 3 times today. It's nice.

I think, i THINK, that the sea is the love of my life. And I am by no means sure of this, hence the emphasised "think".

Watermelon.
Watermelon.
And curls. And going out.
And the fact that the summer will come again.


I think I want to learn how to make good jam.M.

les rêves

I did some day-dreaming last night and oh my g. o. d. it was GREAT.
I absolutely had not realised that I don't daydream very much. But it's so good.

Definitely going to do that more often.
New Year's resolution, #2.

Dreaming is just so...good. M.