I got up and looked at a poem. "Tiresias," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Such things are always obscure to me, since I never just know the names and relationships, especially about things that no one ever mentioned in school.
Now that I think back -- it's been well over an hour -- I guess I read the whole thing. Then I looked it up in a "Reader's Encyclopedia" and they didn't mention it. Except just by name in an entry on Tennyson, which also said that Tennyson's poetry is basically insipid and that he reflects the norms of conventional Victorian society or some such.
I'm thinking, This guy's this famous and he's just a hack? It sounded good to me. But what I know! I only hope I fare better when they finally get around to compiling all my blog posts. I don't want some ignorant schmuck reading them 150 years from now just to discover that I was "insipid" all the while. Not that I picture that happening. True genius can't be dismissed by a "Reader's Encyclopedia."
So I did that. Started off with Tennyson -- read "Enoch Arden" again last night -- now spitting it out.
While on the page about about "Tiresias," which the Encyclopedia did have an article on, although not relating to Tennyson, I saw a little article about St. Theresa, so I was looking around for my copy of "The Inner Castle." Which I couldn't find. My own castle isn't arranged neatly enough or systematically to ever find anything when I want it. Other days I'm moving big piles of them around.
Speaking of big piles, next I took the dog out early, since I heard her clomping by my door, meaning she was on the way to the kitchen to pee on the floor. I made a decision a couple days ago that if I heard her go by I'd intercept her and we'd go outside early. She seemed stunned, but my quick thinking prevented a puddle on the floor.
She really went too, a few Number Ones and a couple Number Twos. With Tennyson on my mind, it led me to rhyme, "I wonder how it got in her / Must've been her dinner."
That accomplished, my mind was racing. I had a lot of other inspired thoughts.
Right, now I remember, I was also reading the first few pages of "Faust -- Part 2," that starts off with a reverie on the greatness of the day. So I'm out with Underbrush and her poop bag, looking up to see one big star (other than the sun just under the horizon), and to think about my existence. I heard a bird off in the distance make a noise and thought about him sleeping outside all night and how much better I had it. I reached down and felt some cold snow on my hand. It melted right away, meaning we could get rid of all the snow if everyone would go out for 10 minutes everyday and grab a few handfuls of it.
Now a quick bagel, milk, grape juice, and freshly ground coffee, a cup of it, and typing this report, and it's about time to do something else.
Note: My copy of Benet's "Reader's Encyclopedia" is considerably older than the Fifth Edition, so I don't know if Tennyson's reputation has been rehabilitated in the meantime.
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