Dirt Being Dirt
By Carl Phillips
The orchard was on fire, but that didn’t stop him from slowly walking
straight into it, shirtless, you can see where the flames have
foliaged—here, especially—his chest. Splashed by the moon,
it almost looks like the latest proof that, while decoration is hardly
ever necessary, it’s rarely meaningless: the tuxedo’s corsage,
fog when lit scatteredly, swift, from behind—swing of a torch, the lone
match, struck, then wind-shut…How far is instinct from a thing
like belief? Not far, apparently. At what point is believing so close
to knowing, that any difference between the two isn’t worth the fuss,
finally? A tamer of wolves tames no foxes, he used to say, as if avoiding
the question. But never meaning to. You broke it. Now wear it broken.
The only excitement around here on Monday was a massive thunderstorm that bounced my internet just long enough to undo hours of work uploading and labeling photos. Otherwise my day was spent uploading and labeling said photos (the former twice, the latter to be finished tomorrow hopefully), plus laundry and a bunch of scanning (Shakespeare and Austen ephemera completed, other authors up next).
We had tacos for dinner and watched Antiques Roadshow, then some Lost Cities With Albert Lin though now I'm watching season three Merlin and have no idea why it took me so long to do a rewatch. Here is my anniversary card made by Paul, Good Omens-themed since we're sharing a 30th anniversary this year (speaking of things I need to rewatch) -- I don't believe in the "definitely not":