Why hasn’t Obama’s speech on trade received more media coverage?
Why isn’t this the #1 most e-mailed story on the NY Times? Why isn’t it the leading story in all media outlets, period?
Why is this world once in which Obama “has to prove to Americans that, despite his exotic background and multicultural looks, he shares or at least respects their values and understands why they would be upset about his associations with the Rev. Wright and an ex-Weatherman”?
Why did it snow today? Why is the house freezing cold? I made a list yesterday of all the things I am frustrated about, in an attempt to expell negative energy, but it turned out so long that I just gave up.
At reader’s request more poetry (from same volume from previous entry, pg. 456, 150, 130, 112-113, 106-107):
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Not the laying-on of hands, healing bones and hearts.
Not flowers, protease inhibitors, pills for the pain.
Not a prayer for the dying, for you, for us, not crying, not yet.
Tonight only the clock, each concentrated second one tiny grain
in a thousand thousand parts
NICK DRAKE (the singer-songwriter? dunno)
And the Days Are Not Full Enough
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world’s one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
My life is too dull and too careful–
even I can see that:
the orderly bedside table,
the spoilt cat.
Surely I should have been bolder.
What could biographers say?
She got up, ate toast and went shopping
day after day?
Whiskey and gin are alarming,
Ecstasy makes you drop dead.
Toy boys make inroads on cash
and your half of the bed.
Emily Dickinson, help me.
Stevie, look up from your Aunt.
Some people can stand excitement,
some people can’t.
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these minature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
FLEUR ADCOCK (I’m especially feelin’ this one right now)
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
THEODORE ROETHKE [excerpt]