Wednesday night

Just got off the phone with my friend in Canada. Was at the gym and store earlier after a nap. Then I was hungry and made a load of chicken salad out of the barbecued Publix rotisserie chicken from the other day (had picked up some celery at the store for that). Ate it on melba toast. A few barbecue notes here and there but still excellent. Hadn't made chicken salad in a while and have been craving it lately.

An old friend of my friend's is experiencing something of a Madame Bovary moment in her marriage. My friend unfortunately has been dragged into it. Now it's become extremely complicated and keeps my friend up at night. (My friend likes the guy.) "What a tangled web we weave . . . ." (*) I just think it's probably always a mistake to get involved with a married person. (I just wish more gays had the protection of legal marriage--or the equivalent--for their relationships.)

A good segue to one of my favorite poems:

Her Reply
(WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH)

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

Here's Christopher Marlowe's poem, to which she is replying:

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

COME live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

The ill-conceived project at work was back today. :-(