One afternoon nap and a porkchop dinner later...

One afternoon nap and a porkchop dinner later...

I'm feeling just a little bit better today. Earlier my uterus was doing its best impersonation of an angry cat trying to claw its way out through my lower belly, and did so the entire time George and I were out having coffee and getting groceries, but two Aspirin, a glass of caffienated beverage, and a two-hour nap seems to have helped that out considerably.

Still, I've got the mental capacity and willpower of a jellyfish right about now. I sent Jim Salicrup an email explaining that he probably won't see any new pages until Monday.

Bloody hormones.

Centrist!

( And the American political quiz result is... )

Walt Whitman

When you see this, post your favorite poem in your journal.

We Two—How Long We were Fool’d

WE two, how long we were fool'd,
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,
We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,
We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,
We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,
We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,
We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any,
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,
We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes mornings
and evenings,
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,
We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,
We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic
and stellar, we are as two comets,
We prowl fang'd and four-footed in the woods, we spring on prey,
We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,
We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling
over each other and interwetting each other,
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious,
impervious,
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and influence
of the globe,
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we
two,
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.

(Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900.)