Today is both Super Bowl Sunday and Groundhog Day. How often does that happen?
Anyway, Punxatawney Phil saw his shadow, so lots more winter to come but, logically, that should only apply to the region around Punxatawney and, in this era of the internet and high speed fact checking, we know that the groundhog’s predictions are correct no more often than random chance would account for. Also, nobody would pay any attention to G Day at all except for that movie where Bill Murray falls in love with Andie McDowell which really had nothing to do with it except that’s the setting. Since it was one of the best movies ever, I take this opportunity to mention it.
As to the Super Bowl, I don’t care who wins. Pro sports always comes down to which city has spent the most money to attract the best players. I suppose I’m rooting for Seattle, because I know more people there than I do in Denver, but if Denver wins it will not ruin my day and I’m certainly not planning on staying awake to watch it, although if I’m still up at 1 a.m. I may glance at the sports channels to see if it’s on.
You can’t see what’s inside from the outside
What I want to write about tonight, though, is a poem I’ve been trying to write since Thursday. Thursday at 6:54 a.m. to be precise, I was on the bus on my way to my first class when the idea hit me. Basically, the idea is that there’s no way we can know just from looking at somebody what’s going on inside their heads and the universe of thoughts that’s contained inside each one is as infinite as the outside universe. I’d started and crossed lines out a few times and this morning got these 4 written down…
I see your face, I look into your eyes
they are the windows of the soul, it’s said
No way! No matter how hard I might try
I cannot see the thoughts inside your head
…and that’s where I got stuck but for the 2nd stanza the image that popped into my mind was that of the Tardis, bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. I don’t know if it will actually fit into this poem, a lot depends on what rhymes with what and poems (at least my poems) tend to write themselves and don’t always wind up saying exactly what I intend them to say, but…
I wonder if the creators of Dr. Who thought of that metaphor, if the Tardis is actually supposed to represent the mind, the imagination, an entire universe of possibilities contained within a very small, manageable space.
If they didn’t, perhaps they should have. It’s a good metaphor.
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