The tea at the barbecue yesterday had a veguely familiar yet unpleasant aftertaste. I thought it was mung beans, but I was wrong. I woke up in the middle of the night with a horrid taste in my mouth, one that I have tasted only once in my life before: durian, the smelliest fruit ever. The previous time was when Mom brought home Chinese wafer snacks to try out. One box of chocolate ones, and a box of durian becasue we all knew so little about durians. Apparently, the natural durian scent is kept inside the pastries, and I was the only one to try a bite. The smell got stronger (from the box) and I rushed outside with the box and threw it in the garbage. This isn't the first time I had problems with Red Diamond tea. I'm never getting that brand.
The day started with me trying to find an old post of mine on BEA, and then eventually turned into hours of re-reading old threads from back in the day. And even though doing so reveals that back then we (well, them canadians mostly) were as retarded as ever, I still got really fucking nostalgic :'(
RIP Seamus Heaney, my favourite poet and author of my favourite book of all-time, his debut collection Death of a Naturalist. His last collection before he died, Human Chain, was stunning. I recommend both to everybody. Anyway, with that in mind, here's my favourite Heaney poem:
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Tonerโs bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But Iโve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
Iโll dig with it.
So it's now to the point where I'm almost literally the only one of my friends who isn't 21. Everyone else is out bar-hopping and I'm sitting in my apartment with my cat. And the best part? Almost all of my friends graduate like 3 days after I turn 21.
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