A Late Sunday Morning in CinCity
Morning at the Window
by T.S. Eliot
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
This weekend I've been home with some strain of flu/virus/plague that's been romping around CinCity lately. I believe HoneyHaired brought it home from school, but it's certainly been in the hospital with co-workers taking off sick days like a row of Dominoes tumbling down the assignment sheet.
I've been using the time to update my CV and pull together the application for graduate school. The sticky hold-out seems to be my transcripts, which are ancient and probably stuck in a moldy, duct-taped box in the basement of McMillan Hall at Big Fat University. I am so crossing my fingers that I don't have to HazMat up and drag those yellowed sheets of paper to the light of day.
Not that there's been much light around here lately. I think that a day can't possibly get any greyer than this cold, damp blanket of clouds and yet the next day, yes,...yes it can. Thank Mary, Joseph, and little baby Jesus for Hulu.com.
Been catching up on past episodes of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and Showtime's The Tudors.
I guess that makes me one of those liberal neo-monarchists that Mitt Romney and others are caterwauling about. Somehow I'm more than okay with that.
For anyone out there with a fondness for the Motor City and/or R&B, Prairie Home Companion's show this weekend is out of Detroit, acknowledged as a grand old city down on her luck. The music is amazing and almost enough to make a sick person get off the couch and see light at the end of the tunnel.
please note: art by Sheila Vaughan at Stalybridge