May 23rd, 2003

Picocon

Project S, supplemental -- poetry.

We've had a bit of difficulty, scarlatti and I, over the last couple of days. Some of you know why.
I wanted to reassure her, to try and help her to realise what I really want long-term, to try and help her to realise that I find her irresistibly attractive.
I thought I had a poem somewhere. I could remember reading it, I knew it said part of what I wanted to say. But I couldn't remember a single word of it when I tried to quote it to myself.
I woke up early this morning, made a concerted effort to find it. And now I've found it, I know why I couldn't remember it.
It's not in English, that's why. By a cruel irony, it's in Welsh. Mediaeval Welsh, at that. But it's still beautiful, it still says (part of) exactly what I like about her.
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Somehow, I doubt she can read mediaeval Welsh. And although I don't have the translation to hand, I'm fairly sure this is the bit that I wanted to quote.
I don't think the translation would be terribly work-safe.
  • Current Mood
    melancholy melancholy
Picocon

It's not just anniversaries

Chris -- this is the post I alluded to earlier.

Last weekend I posted something about how much I'd moved on since my wife had died. It was posted on Sunday, but it was talking a look at the Saturday, which would have been our sixth wedding anniversary.

I hadn't spotted the date today until I saw a newspaper at Lunchtime. It made me pause for a moment, shake my head, and then carry on with my day.
It wasn't like this on this date last year. Last year on this date, I watched it coming with dread for the whole of the preceding week. It was a hard day when it came. This year, I almost forgot.

Today is the 23rd May. Happy birthday Anne.
And I'm delighted that I forgot your birthday.