Awoke with a head full of ideas, and change on the horizon. I have an idea that I am working on, and I hope to make its presence realized here.
And Cambodia is a whirl of awful, which makes it unleavable, almost. I have so many memories from just a few days there. Many more than I could find in the same time in the City of Dreams. But maybe I just haven't been looking.
For today, a short poem by Raymond Carver, who's short stories are some of the best written:
"Sleeping"
He slept on his hands.
On a rock.
On his feet.
On someone else's feet.
He slept on buses, trains, in airplanes.
Slept on duty.
Slept beside the road.
Slept on a sack of apples.
He slept in a pay toilet.
In a hayloft.
In the Super Dome.
Slept in a Jaguar, and in the back of a pickup.
Slept in theaters.
In jail.
On boats.
He slept in line shacks and, once, in a castle.
Slept in the rain.
In blistering sun he slept.
On horseback.
He slept in chairs, churches, in fancy hotels.
He slept under strange roofs all his life.
Now he sleeps under the earth.
Sleeps on and on.
Like an old king.
"Sleeping" by Raymond Carver from Ultramarine. © Vintage Books, 1986.
