Poem for Saturday

From The Dead
By James Joyce

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

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No, that is not technically poetry, though one could argue that the entire short story (indeed the entire short story collection) is poetry. And I was in the mood for it. Not sure why, because I'm not depressed; am trying to work on depressing fic, however, and this exactly reflects a certain state of mind.

Why yes, I WAS feeling very silly last night. However could you tell?

Have just discovered the HP artwork at Art Dungeon. Oh my god, heaven. And I just want to snuggle her Sirius and Remus.

Have also been killed dead by 's Viggo/Sean animation (MAJOR warnings for RPS! Do not click this if you are going to scream -- I screamed when I saw it!) I had noooo idea that such things were possible without serious filmmaking software. Ohh the possibilities. Am having issues with this being posted in public, as this is certainly the sort of unauthorized use of someone's image that Alyssa Milano sues people over, but if it weren't posted in public, however would I have found it? I am such a guilty perverted hypocrite and I don't even care...

made the following great comment about the MTV VMAs: "I don't care that the Brit/Madonna/Christina bit was exploitative because it was fun and hot and I loved it. I love spectacle. I don't care that pop has no credibility. Boring music has credibility. Fuck that."

We are going to go down to the National Geographic Explorers' Hall to see the Sir Edmund Hillary Exhibit and then otherwise entertain ourselves downtown. It's merely 90 degrees and very very humid. Back and undoubtedly headache-y later!