There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold,
And the arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold.
The northern lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake LaBarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now, Sam McGee was from Tennessee
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to roam
’Round the pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell,
Though he’d often say, in his homely way,
He’d sooner live in hell.
– Robert Service
“The Cremation of Sam McGee”
That’s only the first two verses – it’s a long poem. I’m not sure what brought it to mind other than I’m immersed in a Lit class and this poem is one of my favorites. Why it’s not included in my Lit book is something I will never understand.
Some people just don’t know art until it stuffs them in a boiler.
The other night I dreamed I had been bitten by a snake and there was no anti-venom, so I was going to die. And I was kind of depressed about that. I tried to find some pain killers because my hand hurt (because of the poison) but no one would give me a prescription. Later, the snakebite morphed somehow into a deadly spider bite. Then Griggs asked if the pain was only in my hand. When I said yes, she said I wasn’t going to die. Which was sort of a relief, but my hand still hurt like hell.
Then I woke up.
I have no idea what it means.