giving CSI a run for its money
Today, Nailz and I went shopping. Well, we did other things too: drove around, hung out in a few cemeteries--you know, the usual. But I kind of made a mistake...I bought one of those light wand thingies (basically, a hand held blacklight) that spots human and animal bodily fluids--like on
CSI for those of you who are fans. I got the light because there are certain spots in the apartment where I can smell dog pee, but I can't see where it is (because we steam-cleaned our apato a while back). Well, I had to wait until it was dark outside to use it. So I took a nap (which Nailz is doing right now), and woke up just now. I turned off the lights and walked around the room, waving the wand over mainly just the couch and carpet. Let me put it this way: if the guys from
CSI had to come and try to solve a murder in this apato--they'd have a shitload of samples to take. They wouldn't know where to start first--the hall, which is almost one huge glowing spot and even includes paw prints (I don't even want to think about it) or the walkway from the kitchen into the living room. The dog is like a walking pee sprinkler. I know that some of it is from when he's gotten pukey-sick, but most of it is urine. No wonder I smell it every once in a while. *scratches head*
Anywho--I was thinking about my favorite poem today. So I thought I would post it. This poem is so wonderful. It is hard to put it into words. Wallace Stevens is my favorite poet.
The scene: a small, yet cozy study, packed with leather-bound books, their ends a bit frayed and letters fading. The air feels close and smells of old leather and well-read pages. A man in his 60s stands near the window which is partly covered by ivy, graying hair kept strictly oiled. The light is golden and dim from the slanted fall rays. The man is dressed well--corduroy patches on elbows and perhaps a tobacco pipe in one hand. The man is fat--a successful lawyer with food aplenty. He is known for his unsentimental and logical approach to his work: law and poetry. His voice is slow, emphatic and clear.
The Poems of Our Climate
I
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations--one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.
II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.