All is Right on a Lazy Sunday
Very tired tonight, some gig weekends take it out of you. Worth it, every time, but I do end up a Zombie some Sunday's....Nathilie is back and that is all to the good. Val has her painting up, hurrah, and Phiala is , one hopes near to getting done with her mountains of paper...Gayle is back in school, and everyone is working on our Nightime Garden. Jess and Dr Score may be starting their own Zombie revolution, along with the Happy Guy from the Pub last night (also a Zombie nut, weird how these things come out..)
Dan Guy, of course, is still working hard with the Bengals-Bee alliance and their quest for world domination.
All is right in the world.
No word yet on if I get the F1 Kitten. I'm hoping I do, just for the chance to try. I am going to need some expert advice tho, and am starting to look for someone who has dealt with F1's.
I've been reading a lot about the life of John Donne lately, one of my favorite poets. Brought him into the Haunted House a while back. See what you think, goes a long way towards explaining a lot of things.. It feels so good to finally have broken the "I can't show these to everyone" barrier." I think I want to know how it all turns out, and what these Creatures are as much as anyone. Plaguing me they are...
Love and Rest, Lorraine
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee
And swear, No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
Do you remember some years ago, 400 or so, if one would be exact, there was a poet born? I remember how you looked at him. I remember how you sang to him, how you danced with him, and how you left him.
Poor soul, he married foolishly, and quickly, stayed a time in prison for it, in fact. Lost his living, his religion, twelve children, and his life. John-Donne, Anne-Donne, Un-Done, he said.
He traveled so far, looking, searching, wanting. He sailed with Sir Walter and the Lord Essex, for a time, and saw the last of the grand ship San Felipe , saw all aboard die, saw the ship burn, and sink beneath the waves. He looked for you in Germany, in the embassy at the Princes court. And in Italy.
He did not return to England for many years. And never a word of what he wrote, while he lived, was read. Not until long after he had died.
What do you think he and Jemmie, that first King James, spoke of late at night? That was a King who saw too much, but had not the soul, or imagination for it to destroy him...I had something to do with that. It was one of my, let us say, slight miscalculations. I regret what came after. Too many dreamers died, too much magic was lost, all stemming from his fear of demons, of witches, of things that can happen in the night.
Never was a poet born who lived happily. I think, when they see such things, hear such things, and dream such dreams, it is better for them in the next world than this. They burn so brightly. It is worse for them if we find them. Or better. You can look indifferent and shrug if you want to, but there is some truth in what I say.
I just wondered if you remembered these things.
For I think you might be about to make a slight miscalculation of your own.