I took to my bed yesterday with what I was sure was consumption. Brent assures me I had a shot for that. Now I think it’s probably the Vapors which will be a little harder for him to disprove. At any rate there was nothing to watch on TV. No thing. I did have an old Netflix envelope laying around which contained Grey Gardens — the HBO movie, not the actual documentary. I thought it would be sad, but it wasn’t really. I thought it would make me want to clean the basement, but it didn’t.
I also watched a couple of episodes of “Touched by an Angel.” There was one starring Ann-Margaret with a poem I thought would be good for today, but it turns out it was either misquoted or misrepresented or made up by the writers. In any case, we can’t have that one.
Instead, let’s have a salute to my small town water festival this weekend on Minnesota’s 13th largest lake:
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by W. B. Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.