It’s been a weird day. There’s a quiet today, almost like the ceiling of the world is pressing down. I’m listening in, and everybody’s hushed. One thing happened, this happened, I’ve been given the ‘keys’ to post here on cannablog. This got me to fretting a little: What if I don’t write right? What if we have inextricably diverging visions? There wasn’t a lot of direction given, more like “Here you go. Sink or swim.”
So. In just such a situation I think whig himself would go relax with some herbal remedies. My solution is to just write. It’s a good combo, really. He’s major on the visuals, I’m crazy on the words. I guess if this doesn’t suit, I’ll just congenially hand the keys back.
And for today, such a weird, silent day, a dead hermit and favorite poet said it better than I ever could.
There’s a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything,
‘Tis the seal, despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, ‘t is like the distance
On the look of death.