Snow tires
Take begos1 to Paul2
Groceries
Post office
Work out
Read final page proofs
Send cx to SW
Prep final-page packages and FedEx
Update museum log
Send batch 2 of workbook and invoice
Query where rest of chapters are
Answer e-mail
Go through mail
Prep recycling and trash for dump
Try to read blogs
Try to post blog
Move 40 pounds of birdseed
Feed birds
Make Thanksgiving grocery list
(Fewer than 6 weeks til Xmas)
Make lists for tomorrow
Breathe
1Polish stew with sauerkraut-potato-kielbasa base
2Who had a hip replacement 8 days ago
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
M is for Marmoset
A marmoset perched on my shoulder
Within minutes became even bolder.
He slipped under my shirt,
Which was less of a flirt,
More of monkey-avoiding-the-colder.
Within minutes became even bolder.
He slipped under my shirt,
Which was less of a flirt,
More of monkey-avoiding-the-colder.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
N is for No. 2 Pencil
Oh No. 2 pencil, I have fallen in love with you in my middle age—you my truest friend of childhood left abandoned for the seductive ballpoint pen, then the typewriter, then the keyboard. The permanent dent in my right middle finger never forgot you, I swear, and sometimes craved the pain of you—I pushed so hard against you back in the days.
Oh hard black HB, you so full of graphite and clay, you who come to me most often hexagonal, but sometimes round (like the marbled ones I picked up in Florence, now nearly nubs I long to replace)—it is your dark gray against my white sheet, your smooth whisper tickling my ear, your point gradually dulling that makes me sharpen you again and again.
Still, I write with keys, having been (at a tender age) lured by the quick of it, seduced by sound and volume and practicality, drawn deeply into the first thing I could do well with my hands. You, No. 2 pencil, I save for private works: the grocery list (bananas, soy milk, spinach), to-do list (work out, get mail, feed birds), my own private page proofs (no red for others’ eyes). You are short phrases and sighs, the lover in the dark stairwell. You are eagerness and immediacy, the scritch-scratch of now, now, now.
Oh hard black HB, you so full of graphite and clay, you who come to me most often hexagonal, but sometimes round (like the marbled ones I picked up in Florence, now nearly nubs I long to replace)—it is your dark gray against my white sheet, your smooth whisper tickling my ear, your point gradually dulling that makes me sharpen you again and again.
Still, I write with keys, having been (at a tender age) lured by the quick of it, seduced by sound and volume and practicality, drawn deeply into the first thing I could do well with my hands. You, No. 2 pencil, I save for private works: the grocery list (bananas, soy milk, spinach), to-do list (work out, get mail, feed birds), my own private page proofs (no red for others’ eyes). You are short phrases and sighs, the lover in the dark stairwell. You are eagerness and immediacy, the scritch-scratch of now, now, now.
Monday, October 22, 2007
O is for October
It’s that most wickedly wistful of months, the one you step into only to find yourself knee deep in some sort of nostalgia or yearning—maybe for something you used to have; maybe for something you’ve yet to have.
It’s the month in these parts when you’re reminded what orange and blue can be together, and something akin to belief tells you they were meant to be.
It’s the month I had to drop my outdoor wedding into.
But the O of October—and so much of October here is oh, oh, oh—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. Maybe I’ll remember to wear a straw hat and bring a piece of wheat to chew on. Together O and I will become a 19th-century decorative initial, a delicious drop cap.
It’s the month in these parts when you’re reminded what orange and blue can be together, and something akin to belief tells you they were meant to be.
It’s the month I had to drop my outdoor wedding into.
But the O of October—and so much of October here is oh, oh, oh—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. Maybe I’ll remember to wear a straw hat and bring a piece of wheat to chew on. Together O and I will become a 19th-century decorative initial, a delicious drop cap.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
P is for Presbyopia
It’s here.
Admittedly, the last year or so I’ve had trouble reading the tiny type on shampoo bottles and CD liner notes.
But yesterday, sitting on the couch, reading a hardback book in what must be 12-point type, I found I had to move the book farther away.
I couldn’t believe it. I played with it for awhile. Bring the book close to my face—type goes all blurry. Pull it away—it reappears, all clear.
I know this happens to just about everyone on the planet who lives to their Middle Ages. But you’d think people who’ve had bad vision all their lives would be cut some sort of break.
OK. Whine over.
On the plus side, it’s my twenty-first wedding anniversary. (With any luck at all, I’ll be able to read the dinner menu.)
Admittedly, the last year or so I’ve had trouble reading the tiny type on shampoo bottles and CD liner notes.
But yesterday, sitting on the couch, reading a hardback book in what must be 12-point type, I found I had to move the book farther away.
I couldn’t believe it. I played with it for awhile. Bring the book close to my face—type goes all blurry. Pull it away—it reappears, all clear.
I know this happens to just about everyone on the planet who lives to their Middle Ages. But you’d think people who’ve had bad vision all their lives would be cut some sort of break.
OK. Whine over.
On the plus side, it’s my twenty-first wedding anniversary. (With any luck at all, I’ll be able to read the dinner menu.)
Monday, October 8, 2007
Q is for Quaking Aspen (Populus tremuloides)
It’s 2:30. You’re caught up, mostly. Come on, go outside. It’s wacky warm out, for October. How many more days like this do you think you’re going to get?
There. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Just look how fiery red the sumac is. And there—there’s a warbling vireo. What’s he still doing here, and why is he warbling?
Now, isn’t this better than sitting at your desk?
Stop under a quaking aspen. All the leaves are busy catching the wind. That sound, that whisper—you recognize it. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Come on, come outside. Shimmer and shake.
Join the quotidian quiver in the quiet rush to winter.
There. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Just look how fiery red the sumac is. And there—there’s a warbling vireo. What’s he still doing here, and why is he warbling?
Now, isn’t this better than sitting at your desk?
Stop under a quaking aspen. All the leaves are busy catching the wind. That sound, that whisper—you recognize it. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what that’s like. Come on, come outside. Shimmer and shake.
Join the quotidian quiver in the quiet rush to winter.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
R is for Roller Derby Name
For Helen and Deloney
I’ve given it a lot of thought, and still, in light of the brilliance that has already occurred in roller derby names (see R is for Roller Derby), I’ve managed to come up with only one. So, for the roller derby life that exists only in my mind, I will hereby be known as:
Bella Coast
Warlike and fast. Breezy, even. Kick some ass and look good doing it.
I’ve given it a lot of thought, and still, in light of the brilliance that has already occurred in roller derby names (see R is for Roller Derby), I’ve managed to come up with only one. So, for the roller derby life that exists only in my mind, I will hereby be known as:
Bella Coast
Warlike and fast. Breezy, even. Kick some ass and look good doing it.
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