This backpacking training is exhausting, folks . . . I did so many flights of stairs yesterday and I've been running which is something I haven't done since high school gym class. Between the exercise and my allergies (or rather the Benadryl I took for my allergies) and worrying about Pyramus' latest health issues (a urinary tract infection [probably], a worsening heart problem, and unexplained weight loss), I am one tired person. I'm also well on my way to being one broke person seeing as my cat is pretty much a pharmacy with fur.
Which is all to say that I'm feeling a bit worn out. So in lieu of a coherent post please take this poem by Louise Glück:
Parable of the HostagesThe Greeks are sitting on the beachwondering what to do when the war ends. No onewants to go home, backto that bony island; everyone wants a little moreof what there is in Troy, morelife on the edge, that sense of every day as beingpacked with surprises. But how to explain thisto the ones at home to whomfighting a war is a plausibleexcuse for absence, whereasexploring one’s capacity for diversionis not. Well, this can be facedlater; theseare men of action, ready to leaveinsight to the women and children.Thinking things over in the hot sun, pleasedby a new strength in their forearms, which seemmore golden than they did at home, somebegin to miss their families a little,to miss their wives, to want to seeif the war has aged them. And a few growslightly uneasy: what if waris just a male version of dressing up,a game devised to avoidprofound spiritual questions? Ah,but it wasn’t only the war. The world had beguncalling them, an opera beginning with the war’sloud chords and ending with the floating aria of the sirens.There on the beach, discussing the varioustimetables for getting home, no one believedit could take ten years to get back to Ithaca;no one foresaw that decade of insoluble dilemmas—oh unanswerableaffliction of the human heart: how to dividethe world’s beauty into acceptableand unacceptable loves! On the shores of Troy,how could the Greeks knowthey were hostages already: who oncedelays the journey isalready enthralled; how could they knowthat of their small numbersome would be held forever by the dreams of pleasure,some by sleep, some by music?