I may have just discovered an essential element of poetry through reading, of all people, Sylvia Plath. I never understood before when people said things like, "poetry's medium is pure language". Now I do, I think. If the purpose of art is to generate feelings, then poetry does this not with ideas or stories or sounds or images, although it may use these insofar as language is connected with them; but it is the language itself that generates the feelings.

I'm taking a second allergy test next Tuesday, since I failed the last one (I was blocking histamine). This means that I can't take allergy medication until then. For a while I doubted that the Clarinex was doing anything; now I know that it was. My eyes feel like a mob hitman is smothering them to death against the inside of my skull. My head is almost too heavy to keep aloft. At least I can still take my nasel spray; without that I'd probably qualify for disability payments.

I slept through Kay's knitting club today, stayed in the bath while Eric called me three times, and haven't done anything at work that was work-related other than find a couple of internet sources for the fact that Horned toads have black eyes. When I go home, I'll have some food, watch some episodse of Homicide, and read some Kurt Vonnegut. (I don't know what I'll eat; maybe chicken. On Friday, I received all seven seasons of Homicide on DVD, having ordered it from Borders with a 30% discount. I started reading Kurt Vonnegut novels when I heard that he died.) This is my day. I just thought I'd blog.

Shortly after I arrived at the library today, I was talking to Laura about how she sets up a spread sheet. "I can freeze this line, if I want, so that it stays on top even when I scroll. So I go to View . . . and then I click . . . ngggggg!" I looked over to see her face suddenly constricted into a look of shock and anger; her index finger had shot up like an attack dog, pointing just past the monitor.

"What is it?"

"Rain! And snow!"

Just then, the whole library rang with a pounding noise from the roof.

"And now hail! This has been happening every day this week, just as I have to ride home"

I looked out the window, where Laura's finger was still pointing rigidly in anger, and saw large streaks of every kind of condensation coming down at once onto the shivering pinyons, the skeletal branches of the newly-budding poplars, and the small juniper shrubs. Within seconds, everyone in the library ran over to press their faces against the windows in glee and wonder. Eight people ran over in a line and, like water from a faucet reaching the bottom of the sink, hit the wall and spread into a new line. Tutors and students stood together and gawked at the sight of the clouds descending to the earth like a mad swarm of bees.

As much as I would appreciate having employer-provided health insurance, vacation time, sick leave, and pay raises, I have to love my job. I am officially allowed to spend as long as I want, while on my shift, browsing through Library Journal and reading about new book releases; and if there's anything that looks interesting to me, I can point it out to the library director, who more likely than not will buy it. So not only do I get to browse and shop for books for free, I get paid to do it. I wish everyone had this job.