Housekeeping

I am finding that there are many things to say, but not much time in which to say them. This being the dilemma of humanity, perhaps. I have several potential posts swirling around in the primordial soup that is my brain, and hopefully I will post one soon. Tomorrow? Maybe?

I entered the giant world of microblogging, as you can see by my Twitter updates on the sidebar. Posting between posts, "what am I doing" in 150 characters [although if you know me, what I am doing usually is much more than 150 characters could ever explain].

In any case, I found this poem tonight on another blog, and I like it, so I thought I would post it here. Um, it's beautiful. And kind of makes me think about reconsidering my previous tattooing plans.

For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in the narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house,
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
though your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all...
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.

-Anne Sexton