Old Tales Told Anew

I've just arrived home. Papillon was just wrapping up, and Muppet Treasure Island is now on the television. I remember buying this movie in all its clamshell glory on a spree right after the new year in 1997. I remember going home to watch my purchases and intermittently dozing in front of the MST treatment of Mitchell. I had just gotten home from an arduous holiday journey, and I was tuckered out. I was wearing a little wool houndstooth check skirt and a black sweater. I remember thinking Kermit sounded so different. I've since gotten more used to that. Loss is like that. Eventually, you come to accept it. Because you must.

It's late. And I'm tired. And it shows. I want a long, hot bath and a can of pop. That's a frequent remedy for me these days.

Billy Connolly makes me laugh. And Jim Hawkins' dreamy falsetto lament makes me want to sing along. "There's gotta be something better than this for me."

The tug of sleep is upon me. It's a welcome urging. In the morning, there's work to be done. And plans to be made. My poetry is missing tonight. Perhaps I'll find it when I've had a bit of rest.