That pretty much describes my state every Thursday. I can barely string together two words for this post. So, I am going to leave the work to the Poet of the Week to be profound. Donald Hall has over eighty years of practice being wise and funny. He never really disappoints.
Saint Marty needs to unplug his lava lamp and go to sleep now.
by: Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures, bought long ago, framed and hanging —de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore— that I’ve cherished and stared at for years, yet my eyes keep returning to the masters of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round, tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell, a broken great-grandmother’s rocker, a dead dog’s toy—valueless, unforgettable detritus that my children will throw away as I did my mother’s souvenirs of trips with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens, and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
|A lot smarter than me . . .|