mary, mary

So today I was going to sleep in no matter what, since my last several attempts at such had been inadvertantly foiled by the well-meaning. birdmojo very considerately got up and went downstairs at 7ish, without even waking me. And then my internal alarm clock went off at the completely unusual time of 7:55 and demanded I get up and start doing stuff already. So far today, I have: gone out for breakfast, read the last 3/4 of one of the half-dozen books I was in the middle of, practiced my saxophone, and washed the dishes. In a little bit, I think I will do laundry and either finish another book or maybe sew and watch the rest of the Branagh _Hamlet_.

I'm so blessed contrary I won't even do what I tell me to.

I'm not a runner, but this is beautiful

Richard Wilbur on Johnny Kelley:

Legs driving, fists at port, clenched faces, men,
And in amongst them, stamping on the sun,
Our champion Kelley, who would win again,
Rocked in his will, at rest within his run.

(ganked from Hugo Schwyzer, who frequently posts excellent poetry and who tends to exasperate me in useful ways. Er, not that he exasperates me all that often. Mostly I just think he's interesting.)