Antique Photography

6:43:55 PM     

Dreams

2:30 AM, I'm awakened by the sound of one of the kittens crying outside the bedroom door.  Typically they are quiet throughout the night now since they've gotten a little older.  But this time Sugar, the Siamese, wanted in.  Badly.  I couldn't go back to sleep after getting up to let her in, so I went to the kitchen for something to drink and turned on the tv for a little while - until I felt sleepy again.  Got back in bed, and Scott turned to me and said:

"I dreamed Love is an involved tenderness"  I mumbled that's nice sweetie (mmm sleep)..

he said, "Mel Gibson in my dream."  Mel Gibson? "oh, so you and Mel had a little conversation about Love?"  he said, "well, not exactly."  "so Mel's giving you Love advice in your dream?"  he said, "well, not exactly."  (hmmpphh) (roll over mmmm sleep)...

i said, "I dreamed you were yelling at me.  In my dream you said: "let me be frank, there are books scattered all across the room."  (frank? aren't you Scott?) (roll over ...sleep)...

much later::  i said, "you yelled at me in my dream. Let me be frank, you yelled."  he said, "It was Mel".

Aren't dreams strange? 

5:33:01 PM     

Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.

Spring's and expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

2:08:57 PM