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crookedfingers
July 11th, 2019 
It is 11:35 AM Thursday late morning here in west Michigan. It is a warm day, but not super hot. Carol opened up the house this morning when it was cool. I have not shut the house up yet because the heat is still bearable.

Carol left this morning around 10:15 AM for a class at the hospital she works at. She did not know when she would be home today from her class.

This morning I have been doing the usual things to keep myself from falling asleep. We are still dog sitting Ollie our oldest son's puppy, so I can't leave the house. I really have no need to leave the house today.

This morning I read for awhile from a book titled, 'Biblical Theology of the New Testament' by Peter Stuhlmacher. After reading this volume for a couple of hours I dozed for an hour. Now I have been reading a book I got in the mail yesterday titled, 'See What I See' essays by Greg Gerke. Last night before going to bed I read from a novel titled, 'Abel And Cain' by Gregor Von Rezzori.

Well there is not much else to report today. Life keeps floating along full speed. We will soon be in the middle of July 2019. Summer will soon be gone and Autumn will be here once again. The years just fly by!
A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts BY WALLACE STEVENS

The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur—

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,

You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone—
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.

https://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/wallace-stevenss-the-rabbit-as-the-king-of-the-ghosts/
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