We had Santa Ana winds last night, but the roses and lemons remain intact. Maybe they brought in dreams, though, because I had some intense ones. Houses with rooms, men I once loved, Sophie and bodies of water blew through my night, and when I woke at 3:45 or so this morning, the moon was shining through the slats of the blinds, insistent. I went back to sleep and woke to Sophie having another seizure -- she's having a bunch of seizures these days, again -- but I dissociated myself from despair and remembered I have a small vial of cannabis that I haven't dropped onto her tongue yet so maybe I will, maybe the Santa Anas that drive some mad will drive me to that.
Here's a poem. Don't fall into the abyss of conjecture that it speaks to me today because I read it last night.
Tomorrow I will start to be happy.
The morning will light up like a celebratory cigar.
Sunbeams sprawling on the lawn will set
dew sparkling like a cut-glass tumbler of champagne.
Today will end the worst phase of my life.
I will put my shapeless days behind me,
fencing off the past, as a golden rind
of sand parts slipshod sea from solid land.
It is tomorrow I want to look back on, not today.
Tomorrow I start to be happy; today is almost yesterday.
Dennis O'Driscoll
