Donna and I keep finding rabbits in the wild. This is the fourth. We first found one in Mount Auburn Cemetary. Then we found one near the garden at the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow House. Then another again in the Mount Auburn Cemetary.
I'm a little tired to write passages from a philosophical novel tonight, but the doctors wanted to test me for cancer. I tested negative for prostate but for a week we didn't know. The in the courtyard behind our apartment at one o clock in the morning, there was another rabbit. Its where my ashtray is- not that I don't take lung seriously, but we didn't think it was lung, so I still use nicotine. I'm tired tonight to make it a work of art, but tonight I called Donna over to where I was to show her that the rabbit returned. Its wild and our courtyard is to a building with 19 floors. Physically tired from the tests and from the roses still on the table.
We thought I could have had cancer, one that is not emphysema- but I don't.
We did go to church, which on the surface is a scene from a slow-moving movie in itself and I did give her a thank you. I was reading Mr. Britiling Sees It Through by H.G. Wells before the service. I read ten volumes by the British author E. Phillips Oppenheim during the summer and there were two more in the store; I have a game where I look for hardcover first editions of novels in written before 1925 for a dollar to three dollars and I leave the five dollar copies there, most are copies published before 1930, and never having read an H. G. Wells before it seemed interesting that he wrote "Adult Fiction", which he did.
So thoughts of one's own impending demise and a morbid somber mood make for deep fiction, not tonight, but I'll keep out some reflection. Before seeing the rabbit, which I didn't know would return when I was not in solitude, I called in a car accident, which was right in front of me, my test scheduled for the next morning. The person needed a phone and I thought quickly enough. Is it in middle age that mostly if you just think quickly enough when you need to, then most things feel as they should, and you know that you've gone from one day to the next. And then there's the contemplative way to live in between.
(I mentioned 19 floors because each year, to contrast we visit Rockport Massachusetts, I can right now hear the train; our rabbit is surrounded by Harvard, MIT, and depending how lost you get, probably the Boston Museum of Science.)
Scott Lord and live together fiancée
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Donna and I have a wild rabbit,
Donna and I keep finding rabbits in the wild. This is the fourth. We first found one in Mount Auburn Cemetary. Then we found one near the garden at the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow House. Then another again in the Mount Auburn Cemetary.
I'm a little tired to write passages from a philosophical novel tonight, but the doctors wanted to test me for cancer. I tested negative for prostate but for a week we didn't know. The in the courtyard behind our apartment at one o clock in the morning, there was another rabbit. Its where my ashtray is- not that I don't take lung seriously, but we didn't think it was lung, so I still use nicotine. I'm tired tonight to make it a work of art, but tonight I called Donna over to where I was to show her that the rabbit returned. Its wild and our courtyard is to a building with 19 floors. Physically tired from the tests and from the roses still on the table.
We thought I could have had cancer, one that is not emphysema- but I don't.
We did go to church, which on the surface is a scene from a slow-moving movie in itself and I did give her a thank you. I was reading Mr. Britiling Sees It Through by H.G. Wells before the service. I read ten volumes by the British author E. Phillips Oppenheim during the summer and there were two more in the store; I have a game where I look for hardcover first editions of novels in written before 1925 for a dollar to three dollars and I leave the five dollar copies there, most are copies published before 1930, and never having read an H. G. Wells before it seemed interesting that he wrote "Adult Fiction", which he did.
So thoughts of one's own impending demise and a morbid somber mood make for deep fiction, not tonight, but I'll keep out some reflection. Before seeing the rabbit, which I didn't know would return when I was not in solitude, I called in a car accident, which was right in front of me, my test scheduled for the next morning. The person needed a phone and I thought quickly enough. Is it in middle age that mostly if you just think quickly enough when you need to, then most things feel as they should, and you know that you've gone from one day to the next. And then there's the contemplative way to live in between.
(I mentioned 19 floors because each year, to contrast we visit Rockport Massachusetts, I can right now hear the train; our rabbit is surrounded by Harvard, MIT, and depending how lost you get, probably the Boston Museum of Science.)
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