“His headache was still sitting over his right eye as if it had been nailed there.” ~ Ian Fleming, from Moonraker

Note: I actually wrote this post on Halloween, but never got around to publishing it. Even though it’s been more than a minute since then I decided to go ahead an publish as is and move on . . .

Wednesday afternoon, cloudy, showers, not as warm, 60 degrees.

This migraine began on Monday. It has only intensified since. Tuesday morning when I finally woke up, it hurt to open my eyes. I stumbled about squinting my way through the rooms. The pain seemed to peak Tuesday night; as I described it to Corey, it felt like someone was hammering a railroad spike from inside my skull outwards.. When I got up today, I felt like a limp dishrag, and my ability to function was just as lacking in substance.

The neurologist said that some people get relief in the first month of using Aimovig. So call me completely not surprised that such has not been the case with me. Still, I’m going to give this particular medication a fair chance and try it for at least two more months.

Of course, this happens when I really need to be feeling good as there is so much to do around here. Corey’s mom is coming for a few days next week, and I really wanted to have more done in the house before anyone else visited. Now that the weather has definitely turned, it’s time to work inside the house, so predictably, my body shuts down.

Earlier this week it was absolutely beautiful around here; low 70s, now the wind is whipping leaves everywhere, and the temperature is plummeting. It’s supposed to be in the low 30s tonight. Tornado watch, chance of flurries. It’s a veritable hodgepodge of weather. When I let the dogs out early this morning, it was warm, but apparently that was today’s high. Downhill from there.

“But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don’t care that we don’t.” ~ Dylan Thomas, from a letter to his wife (November/December 1936)

Dylan Thomas in his favorite environment: a bar

My birthday began with the water-
…..Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
……..Above the farms and the white horses
…………….And I rose
………….In rainy autumn
….And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.” ~ Dylan Thomas, from “Poem in October”

Sunday evening, cloudy, 66 degrees.

Today is the birthday of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (October 27, 1914-November 9, 1953). The Poetry Foundation has a good biography and selection of his poems, or you can visit the official website, Discover Dylan Thomas, here.

I still remember the circumstances in which I read my first Thomas poem: I was an undergraduate, working in the newsroom, and one of the editors brought me a handwritten copy of his most famous poem (below) and asked me to type it as she wanted to give it to her father. I realize now what I was unable to fathom at that time, that her father must have been ill.

I remember being moved by the words as I typed them, so moved that in the ignorance of my youth I decided to write my own version. I know, right? Ah, the unfounded arrogance that only the young possess.

I showed that version to one of my writing professors, and she very kindly pointed out that perhaps there were some poems that should not be rewritten, or updated, or mangled by an overwrought young writer (she didn’t say the last part).

Yeh. It was that bad, but I digress . . .

Anyway, listening to Thomas’s deep, melodious voice read his own work enhances the impact of the words and phrasing of his poems. The wonder is that Thomas was able to retain his mellifluous speaking voice in spite of how much he drank and smoked, as opposed to, say, Charles Bukowski. whose voice was scratchy from booze and cigarettes.

More later. Peace.

Today is also the birthday of poet and writer Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932February 11, 1963), who I have featured here several times before.

Dylan Thomas reading his poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night”


Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.