Good stuff

Recognition of my efforts: A housemate wrote a note on the memo board saying that the bathroom I cleaned yesterday "looks amazing." They noticed! Nobody noticed my efforts in the kitchen, but I probably wouldn't have either without before-and-after photos.

Date set: Social Security hearing at the end of the month. Finally.

Weather: You know those autumnal postcards featuring bright blue skies and leaves in full, glorious color? Yeah, we've had some of that. The foliage show here may not be like that of, say, New England, but things are looking pretty darn good these days. This week's had some lovely sunsets as well, including one a few days ago that left me breathless a moment. Man, I feel sorry for people behind me on the sidewalks when there's a good sunset.

Cold enough today for me to grab a winter coat, though not cold enough for layers.

Energy: Enough that I've been able to walk at least two miles each day this week, plus do lots of cleaning yesterday & a bit today. Headache comes & goes, ears & throat hurt, and I'm coughing more again today, but things could be much worse.

Tea: Celestial Seasonings Honey Vanilla White Tea Chai in the clearance section at Target. Not bad.

Despite its frequent recourse to a horse the rider was lost.

Why oh why did I ever agree to do MegaPoMo? It's only day 3 and already I'm having trouble finding my old enthusiasm for this project. Writing is hard! I am so uninspired! Trying to come up with one word to put after another, over and over and over...

Wait a minute. All I have to do in order to generate some nonsense poetry is start a program. And then if I want another poem, I hit "Enter" twice. Nevermind.

The winter sun, of course, a most furious emperor!
but it's a shame
with a shoulder stick set to a renewed formalism,
postmodern poetry rejects the notion of some virgin mine,
that fire, which all things spray violent
and whose skin is the
night before, and you try walking in my nature.

each voice shines bright like running water,
how you are.

Yes, yes, I see... the winter sun is the aging inspirational fire of our decadent culture: not a virgin mine from which new ideas may be taken and refined like gold, but a violently spraying fire, a daystar whose outer appearance is that night before--that "night" of all that came before this society of our decay. And yet each voice, each of us underneath that furious emperor, reflects that light like water...
Or, y'know, maybe it's all just randomly-generated nonsense. That could be it.

In a medium saucepan bring the bullfrog back.
we would with our eyes are dim with tears:
they had an hour, or until just tender. Drain and set me the bonus of laughter
a richer harvest reaping without toil,
and pumpkins safe in bed
is not the love of a deserted pool,
old poets skill-less in the agricultural sector?

because they are.

Oh, I bet they are, HAL.