For those of you who read this in the mornings, with your coffee or hot tea or your first hot orange snort of Tang, I apologise.
I apologise because I won't be here tomorrow morning at the appointed time. I feel like the guy who has to call his girlfriend and tell her "Sorry honey, I won't make it." See, I take our little meetings seriously, I really do. Probably WAY too seriously.
No, I DO take them too seriously.
"Hello, my name is Irrelephant, and I'm a blogwhore."
At the time tomorror morning that I'm usually writing the morning blog entry I will instead be on the road returning home. I have to have the wee'rrelephant on a tour bus at 5:45 in the ayem tomorrow morning, so she and her classmates can go to New Orleans to see the Aquarium of the Americas (worth the trip unless you've been to the Pacific Northwest coast) and view an IMAX movie. So, I will have been up WAYYYY too early tomorrow morning and on the road, will have already stood in a cold, wet, dark parking lot and be headed home again at the appointed time, only to get home long enough to change into work clothes and get back to work.
So, lacking a good post (like using past tense future perfect isn't enough for you insatiable pack of barstards) I leave you with this very funny bit of poetry from a former Poet Laureate.
I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice
might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.
Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe
behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,
the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—
now a fire-starter, now a torch-bearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,
lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, one-time inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?