By Éireann Lorsung
Nothing touches like tan velvet touches
the palm. Now the cracks come, because what gives
without taking?—Doesn't exist. Say
you forget what is lanolin, what is raw about fleece
uncarded & unwashed. Say the silver feel
of charmeuse lines your sleep. You've lost
what there was before pins & needles, sound
a scissors makes through cloth on a hardwood floor,
thick waist of the dressmaker's dummy. Don't tell me
any more. Without Burano lace, without cinnabar
strung on a cuff, shantung and satin and netting and swiss:
no rich man, no camel, no needle's threatening eye.
The cleanup crew has been and gone...and the fans are still here. Two less in the basement, which apparently has dried very nicely...but we now have an even bigger hole in the living room ceiling, the same two fans and dehumidifier just below it, and a piece of drywall missing from over the staircase where the water meters were still reading significant moisture. The insurance adjustor is coming Friday morning and then we may know exactly how bad all of this has been.
So other than a trip to CVS for such thrilling things as Girl Stuff, I had another unenthralling day.
We put her in our bedroom first...
...penned in by a baby gate (which she could leap over by the end of the first day).
Of course it did not take her long to climb on all the furniture...
...and inspect all the nooks and crannies.
And soon she was down in the living room with everyone else.
I giggled to see that Sting topped the worst lyricists, along with Rush, but I really don't understand how Neil Diamond's "I Am, I Said" did not sweep the competition. Really, Neil deserved that title...just think of "Sweet Caroline" ("Where it began, I can't begin to knowin'/But then I know it's growin' strong"). And some of The Jazz Singer songs! Eee!