I’ve always loved a poem by Robert Bly entitled “Eleven O’ Clock at Night” in which he inserts a recurring line–“And for this there is no solution”. I know I will regret the hours spent today talking to Verizon and Direct TV. I will regret hunching over the computer knowing it was unproductive. Outside the northern windows one could watch sleet came across the corn fields like an illness. One hopes for a larger premise than these seasonal vagaries. For a better position on winter see my friend Andrea’s post below. Wittgenstein: objects become facts as we organize. The fact is, sleet is the tears of our bones. Yes, Wittgenstein wasn’t much fun. And for this there is no solution.
Pie helps. I like mince meat.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 