Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be trapped in a blender? Say, a blender filled with oyster shells and gunpowder and little shards of glass and copious amounts of fermented yak’s milk?
Neither have I, and yet, here I am. But instead of all those things, I’m surrounded by ringing land lines and a ringing cell phone and a non-stop barrage of email, half of which is marked “Undeliverable Mail Returned to Sender” because my addy was hijacked by some spam-happy asshole, probably in Florida. And goddess or yahweh or Stephen Hawking or Dame Judi Dench or whatever has her finger on the “pulse” button of the aforementioned blender, so just as I think things have ground to a halt….
Yeesh.
Why don’t you amuse yourself by singing Emily Dickinson poems to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song? That ought to occupy some time while I have a calming cup of coffee. (Which makes no sense because coffee has all that jittery-making caffeine, but there you go.)
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, be passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
sturtle [dot] com 