It's a question Robert asks his dad. Ives has never spoken about his mystical vision with his son. Robert confesses that he's had dreams about seeing Jesus. Later, Ives thinks that Robert already knew his sad fate. That somehow his son knew he would die young.
I really do not have anything deep to discuss this evening. I just got back from my daughter's Christmas band concert. It was wonderful. The sixth graders played carols that only contained seven notes. The eighth graders did a Charlie Brown Christmas medley. The high school band played a complicated piece by the Trans Siberian Orchestra.
The gym was packed. Standing room only. There were plenty of weird things to see. Lots of ugly Christmas sweaters. A kid who filmed the entire concert on his iPhone, panning the crowd in sweeping circles every once in a while. And then there were the football fathers who were simply too cool for yule. Weirdness abounded.
Now, Saint Marty has papers to grade, and miles to go before he sleeps.
Another poem from the Poet of the Week:
The Camper
by: Catharine Savage Brosman
The choice is his alone
to rough it in the woods,
without a telephone
and less of worldly goods.
He has his little tent,
his pack and cooking gear,
and thinks his time well spent
if no one else is near.
He cooks the fish he's caught,
he studies plants and birds,
and cultivates his thought,
economizing words,
and even by the fire,
which warms his pensive mood,
forswearing all desire,
believes in solitude.
Yet winds will sing, and trees
will dance, their leaves unfurled,
when in his dreams he sees
connections with the world.
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| Yes, I was too lazy to draw my own cartoon |
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