(no subject)

In the dream, I was shocked when I learned that there was a shortage of miniature dragons, since I was able to bring little blue dragons into existence as easily as some people can snap their fingers. "How long have you been able to do this?" asked someone greatly desiring to bring back the little blue dragons. "Ever since I was six or so," said I, moving my fingers in wavy motions over and over, sprouting dragons in blue, then moving on to green and pink dragons for the sake of variety, setting my mind and my heart on the goal of repopulating the area and restoring the balance with myriads of little dragons.

In real life, there is still a decided shortage of little blue dragons around here. Unfortunately, in real life I can't even figure out how to snap my fingers.

Also in real life: Headache is nearly gone, nausea is gone, energy level is up, throat pain is better, sneezing is worse, coughing is markedly worse, and nasal mucus is yellow without being that Day-Glo shade everyone finds so entertaining. Been sleeping and eating a lot today, which my body has told me is pretty definitely the right thing to do. Will need to go out into the wide world and forage for food tomorrow, though, so my body better have enough energy to do that with.

Poem of the moment

As seen in greatpoets today:


"The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart"

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

~Jack Gilbert