Full Days

The days are wonderfully long again. Last night we were in bed listening to the This American Life podcast (specifically "Americans in Paris," featuring the always hilarious David Sedaris) and it still felt fairly light out for 9:30pm. And this morning I realized just how early the sun was up again - waking me before SB left for the day - around 5:45am. And the temperature is finally in the 70s, and a long weekend approaches... hurray!

Here are a few quick updates...

- We booked the last of our train trips in August - from Paris to Brussels. And we are considering taking a night bike tour of Paris, which is fun to think about.

- I enjoyed my first soft cheese last weekend. I'm ashamed to say that while I love cheese, I've never been too adventurous when it comes to the funkier cheeses. I think that I had tried brie before, but it had given me the creeps. What we got from a little cheese shop and spread (like butter!) onto a baguette for lunch on Saturday was called Fromage d'Affinois. It was earthy and not too pungent, and great with a glass of wine and some olives. (What can I say? Reading guidebooks and memoirs about Paris is rubbing off on me!)

- We are on the final season of Doctor Who (with Matt Smith as the Doctor). It is such a beloved show that we are pacing ourselves. No other shows really compares to it - I don't know where we'll find such touching silliness on TV again! 

And now a metapoem... 

No Things

by Billy Collins

This love for the petty things,

part natural from the slow of childhood,

part a literary affectation,

this attention to the morning flower

and later in the day to a fly

strolling along the rim of a wineglass —

are we just avoiding the one true destiny,

when we do that? averting our eyes from

Philip Larkin who waits for us in an undertaker’s coat?

The leafless branches against the sky

will not save anyone form the infinity of death,

nor will the sugar bowl or the sugar spoon on the table.

So why bother with the checkerboard lighthouse?

Why waste time on the sparrow,

or the wildflowers along the roadside

when we should all be alone in our rooms

throwing ourselves against the wall of life

and the opposite wall of death,

the door locked behind us

as we hurl ourselves at the question of meaning,

and the enigma of our origins?

What good is the firefly,

the droplet running along the green leaf,

or even the bar of soap spinning around the bathtub

when ultimately we are meant to be

banging away on the mystery

as hard as we can and to hell with the neighbors?

banging away on nothingness itself,

some with the foreheads,

others with the maul of sense, the raised jawbone of poetry.