When it rains, it pours. Whoever said that was a genius. I've got three midterms this week. I've got five possible new piano students lined up. I've got to work late at the theatre this week. And I've got to go to the next poetry reading on Wednesday.

I've never taken Vivarin before; I wonder what it would be like...

Anyway, it occurred to me that I should probably translate the French poem that I wrote yesterday into English. So here it is:


Why is there no pleasure?
My God, why?
My God, why?
Why is the devil starting to laugh?
My God, why?
My God, why?
There's a sickness
and dirty blood.
My tummy's not happy.
It may be Your will,
a will that's not known,
but right and divine. However,
I'm a little sad,
and I lose my hope.
This test is too hard.
I cry so much
and start to vomit,
and I stay with my head on the wall.
Why isn't there any pleasure, my God?
Why isn't there any pleasure?


Okay, so it's not a literal translation. Who cares? If it were literal, it probably wouldn't make any sense. By the way, the title's translation is this: "The Time of the Month, I'm Sick."

That's it for now. I'm printing this up for tomorrow...

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