Porthole

September 13 - 14

13 septembre

49 39 4:19 dark & silent

73 64 3:07 bright & quiet

So... I woke up at 4 a.m.-ish... I felt feverish so I took my temp. 97.0 which is lower than normal. I put the fan on anyways and managed to get back to sleep. Not too bad a rest; although, the sun is getting a bit tardy in getting out of bed.

Saw Willie, Don, Dalton, Phil, Laxmi. We can eat inside now so half did.

Cans of tuna, turkey, chicken and smoked ham were on sale so I moseyed off to market. Bought a bunch along with canned soup. I remembered to buy mouthwash! Forgot butter...

It felt warm on the way home in my orange long sleeve shirt. I had my orange backpack, my orange/black Baltimore Orioles cap on. I was orange. Unfortunately the Orioles gave up 22 runs... in one game to the Blue Jays yesterday. 22?

There is no further wisdom for now.

To Lilli: "I liked one particular Thai romance because viewers expect a boy-boy romance (the typical "when do they kiss" ... clue: in the last episode ) but get roped into a supernatural romance (one's a ghost) who may not have died as believed (detective). One character is dealing with his sexuality (coming of age) all the while trying to introduce his ghostly friend to Bangkok 2017 (things have changed in 20 years) which gives the foreign viewer a look-see into the culture and the young Thai (most viewers are teens, 20s) a view of their parent's music, food, etc. (historical) Then... the mother... ah, another mystery! Yadayadayada... all wrapped into 8 episodes. Even the end has a couple twists. "He's coming to me" is worth a view by mystery/detective writers as the clues are there long before the characters put it all together. My advice? Pay attention to everything from the very beginning. The characters by-the-way are wonderful. Easy to really empathize with them."

I moved into this building 13 years ago. Happy happy.

Read some blogs but I'm wiped out. I ate pasta, turkey, ricotta and now I'm drowsy. I need to lay down.

14 septembre

"How can the US protect Afghani women when they aren't willing to protect Texans?"

45 29 8:33 Bright and clear!

The days are definitely shorter, the nights cooler and leaves are turning. It'll be lovely if we are blessed with sun instead of smoke. Rain this coming weekend.

Quarks Bar

PPC#15 "Write a poem about your neighborhood. Required Form: poet's choice. Line Count: minimum 12 lines, no max."

Ah... which one? Where the oval went round and round? The Hip Strip? The view of the Enchanted Mountains? Sugg and front porches? My first place in Costa Rica? My second? Sabetha and the cornfields? Crete and kolaches? The 5 ships? Brick, walnuts and waterfalls? Rose window and a view? Where 5 dirts paths met? Dog, cat, cow? Utica, Tenth street shuffle, Under the elms and orioles,

WNY, college, Kansas, Costa Rica, Nebraska, Ontario, WNY x 4, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana.

[unfinished — untitled]

born confined behind stone walls / he looked up and saw the skies
he saw the ladder propped up there / and decided he could fly
but childhood dreams remain undone / when risks are never tried
so he never climbed and never crawled / he was dead before he died.

she saw the ladder propped up so / and decided she could climb
an answer to her dreams she thought / at ninety she still had time
she never feared that she would fall / life was to be lead full-time
and lo, beyond the crumbling walls / a heavenly view sublime

© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.228] (14-15.septembre.2021)

Had over 50 notifications but most were just thumbs up or down. I mostly ignore those.

Out of circulation

I'm dying (we all are). But am I living?

What does being alive really mean? What is the point of staying alive past one's expiration date?

Are we-who-still-live willing to embrace our mortality and immortality?

The coins minted the year I was born are scratched, discolored, worn, he copper tarnished, the nickel dulled and whatever was silver melted down long ago. Few bills remain that aren't tattered, torn. What was once of some use in exchange for a cookie or a glass of milk, now deemed worthless and tossed in a jar or abused like those pennies flattened on tracks as the train passed or stretched and remolded into trinkets at a hot tourist spot, now closed.

Is it my time to go. If so, why do I hang on.

I'm old. Not so much by the calender date. That's just a reminder that I've survived so far. So many haven't. Am I old because I remember when songs first came out — fifty years ago. Am I old because I remember, albeit vaguely, how things used to be done? No, I'm old because I can't zig and zag and zog like I used to. I can't keep up and my memories fade.

But I'm not dead yet. Just slowly dying. Like wasps in autumn, the final frenzy before a frost puts their sting to rest. Am I resting when I nap or merely practicing being prone before I'm layed out? In the morning, do I look like I've slept in a coffin. Some days it takes more than sunlight to get me up and more than coffee to wake me.

My expiration date cometh. Sooner if I don't take better care of myself and fall off the shelf. I'll have to embrace that reality now or later, like it or not. And I will. We all do at the end.

Until then, I may as well keep learning — and living.

But do I look beyond? Realize that my life was a gift not just to myself but to others. What kind words or wisdom will linger, what poem I wrote for someone will be stuck in a book and forgotten, to be read and bring forth smiles decades or centuries later. Beyond the Veil of Death will my actions still matter in the material world.

My Muse might know, but he remains as mute as the angels that pass overhead, those who will return at the proper hour to share the final poem.

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