Outlook Express Needs Work
Okay, I employed the block addresses function on my Outlook Express. Lovely; people I have convinced myself no longer exist cannot email me to prove me wrong. Today I send a bunch of stuff to delete box and go back to retrieve something mistakenly sent to delete box. What do I see? Email from person who is no longer supposed to exist. Damn it Gumby! I empty box without reading offending email but still, blocked is supposed to mean blocked Outlook people! I don't want to hear from the dead, not even in my delete box.
The Weary One
The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.
Pablo Neruda
Okay, I employed the block addresses function on my Outlook Express. Lovely; people I have convinced myself no longer exist cannot email me to prove me wrong. Today I send a bunch of stuff to delete box and go back to retrieve something mistakenly sent to delete box. What do I see? Email from person who is no longer supposed to exist. Damn it Gumby! I empty box without reading offending email but still, blocked is supposed to mean blocked Outlook people! I don't want to hear from the dead, not even in my delete box.
The Weary One
The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.
Pablo Neruda
posted by MJ at 10:31 AM
1 Comments:
The Undarkened Window
In the daytime, I see him in the street
in a dark suit,
shaved,
combed,
wearing a tie -
at night the light shines in his window
across from my window.
A survivor
of Hitler's gas chambers,
he sails at night around
his undarkened window -
a wandering ship
on oceans of darkness,
and no port
allows it to enter,
so it may anchor
and darken.
Only in the mornings
does it go out,
the sickly yellow light
in his window.
--Rajzel Zychlinsky
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