{ yesterday's tweets. }

( my milkshake brings all the tweets to the yard )

LoudTwitter, innit?

{ you are not what you were when you were young. }

Good morning Livejournal! Have you seen that light outside yonder window? Fuck me, it's amazing. I've been sat here a while now, trying to figure out how I used to spend my early summer Saturdays before I had exams and a job and all that other rubbish, and I can't really remember? But I don't think it matters so much. It's such an amazing day outside.

For those of you that don't regularly follow my tweets, the part you don't know is that I have been saying something of this ilk every day for the past 10 days or so. But guys, my gosh. Having to wake up early has improved the day for me. There is nothing like dawn. When I was younger I had a thing about sunset but the air is never so fresh as when the sun is in the East. Does that sound like bullshit? I don't really care. The morning makes me feel good.

--

( plans. )

--

Guess who'll be spending her evening doing a stock take? Yes, me. Hopefully I'll be back from P in time to charge my various music players and upload songs to the mp4.

Speaking of, I'm leaving for my day out in a little while. I continue to be your friendless host, swanning around the fen on my onesome. Tip over the pity bucket on your way out, y'all.

I'm kidding, naturally. It's going to be a good day.

--

Oh, William Fitzsimmons, you're so depressing! And yet melodious and wonderful.

--

Have I mentioned, recently, that I love Emily Prentiss? No? How about Ziva David? Because yes, yes, yes, I love these women. Fuck you, Criminal Minds for making Demonology so ridiculous in plot and your finale so contrived. I'm going to watch Minimal Loss over and over and remember Prentiss' bound hands and heels against the windowpane.

{ Mary Oliver: In Blackwater Woods. }

In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.