Sunday Fun

My mind is fried from a night spent out late around town. Thus, I have nothing profound to say today. And as a good friend of mine pointed out, the way to attract visitors to one's blog is to occasionally post something that doesn't sound like a newspaper column and/or John Kerry.

I did meet some interesting people at the Obama meeting and after several hours of fascinating conversation, I decided to finally take my Meyers-Briggs Personality Type.




Obama is pushing Habitat For Humanity, so next Saturday, out of the goodness of my heart I will participate in manual labor for the good of the tired, poor masses yearning to have a new home. I am less than enthused that I will have to wake up at 6 am, an hour I reserve for the elderly and those who have small children. I will try to enjoy myself in spite of how undeniably NOT an morning person I am.

Christian guilt has returned (ah, how easily it comes back) and I am skipping church this morning. Shame on me. I post my favorite Wallace Stevens poem as a means of thumbing my nose at society.

A High-Toned Old Christian Woman

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.