“It’s all right if we’re troubled by the night.
It’s all right if we can’t recall our own name.
It’s all right if this rough music keeps on playing.” ~ Robert Bly, from “The Sympathies of the Long Married”
Saturday late afternoon, cloudy and cold.
So, I’ve been mulling over some things lately, things like mud. I know that mud is not a sexy thing to ponder, but there’s so much of it here that it is ever-present on my mind. Dallas claims that the driveway used to be covered with gravel, and maybe so a few decades ago, but there is little evidence of that now. Our driveway is quite literally a mud pit. There is probably enough mud to host a mud wrestling event . . . I kid you not.
So as a result, the floors throughout the house are covered in mud, a fine coating of dirt with scattered clots throughout. Why not clean it, you might ask? Why indeed. It’s kind of like spitting into the wind: you get no results, or rather, you get temporary results and little satisfaction.
Mud, dirt—currently the bane of my existence. It’s depressing really. Why? Because it’s currently a problem that cannot be solved. Gravel is expensive. Other possibilities like shale or crushed shells are expensive. And the constant or seemingly constant rain makes any cheaper possibilities ineffective.
So mud, mud everywhere, and no relief in sight . . .
I think I’m losing the narrative of my life.
I do not care to talk to you although
..Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
..And all my being’s silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music. When you go
It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow
..Had severed all the strings with savage ease.
..No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
..Others may guess your thoughts from what you say,
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.
..To me the very essence of the day
Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;
..As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.
~ Amy Lowell