I’ll bet you’re just as sick of me apologizing for light posting as I am of me writing the apology. But the honest truth is that I’m living a strange workday lately, and there just isn’t much time to write. I have an extremely complicated commute at the moment, which gives me time to nod off, mostly. So that’s good. And the commute itself is not tiring, really, it’s just complicated and it varies on different days of the week. So I haven’t quite gotten to that place where you arrive at your destination and realize you don’t actually remember passing this landmark or going past that crossroad. You know, the place where you brain takes a break.
But things could be worse. I could be picking apples for a living. Yes, as hard as things may seem at times, they could always be a little bit harder. Robert Frost reminds me of this.
After Apple Picking
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
— Robert Frost