I have a little, spiral-bound notebook in which I write short poems and quotations that I find inspiring, poignant, especially beautiful or powerful. Oftentimes I forget if I have already copied something into the book, and I must flip through its waring pages to see if my intended gem already holds a place. When I do this, I am reminded of all the bits already in residence and tend to lose myself for a few munites with Yeats or Billy Collins or Philip Larkin or Auden. I get lightheaded when I read some of their works, and have to shake it off, so to speak.
Anyway, I have this little, spiral-bound book, and it is running out of pages. I can't very well carry two books with me, and I spend more time on a computer than I do most anywhere else, so I think I will try to transpose what is in my book to here, so that I may have easier access to these pearls of greatness. I'll still carry a book to catch items when I am away from a computer, but I will still try to put them here eventually. As I said, the book is almost full, so I have a great deal of typing ahead of me.
On a totally unrelated note, today is my last work day of the holiday season. I start a 12-day vacation in 2 hours and I can hardly wait. I see lots of Warcraft in my future. Prufrock, my human warlock, is a 50 now. Isn't that a great name? He's bald, and his pants look rolled a bit at the cuffs. I am almost done Christmas shopping, which is good because I took something back to the Apple store today and that place was a madhouse. I can only imagine what stores will look like on Saturday.
Happy Holidays to everyone (anyone?) who reads this. Your Christmas present will be fantastic poetry in the year to come.