It Won't do to Dream of Caramel

This is my 100th post. I'm lying on the couch at home and Balu is lying on my stomache, so this is a shade complicated. But it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, which is what I needed, since I'm phlegmy and sad and ill. I feel like a colony of bacteria have settled in my lungs and are setting up a badminton round-robin. Current music? Damien Rice and Suzanne Vega. Listen to Damien Rice lying down on the ground, looking up at the sun through a window and all will be revealed, I promise you. There's poetry in this guy's voice -- he sounds so familiar yet as though he's singing just for you from centuries before and after your time. Being ill makes me susceptible, I guess. Some things I wanted to share:

from "The Man with the Blue Guitar" -- Wallace Stevens
XXXII

"Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark

That it is this or that it is that
But do not use the rotten names.

How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,

Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand

Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of shape has been destroyed.

You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you."

There are afternoons like this, which could only slightly be improved by the presence of a companion. No one spectacular. Just someone who knows the lyrics to my songs.