|
Sarah,
 |
|
some dogbane, rolled in the friction of palm, reveals its moist ligament figure . pinched, twisted on both ends, becomes rope. throw it on the table. at the stove, the acorns boil for bread,
soften as if heated by the stir of a squirrel's
breath. their dirt rises in the boil, centers
the water's surface like an island.
prepare the collander, then
throw them on the table near the pressed leaves, acquainted
with Genesis' chapters under the bed,
but not serum or autumn's patterns
of slug and frosted grass. be careful
not to bend their edges, press them
down against the glass table. |
|
|
Dresses
Black capes, ties lavaliere, large-brimmed hats--the uniform of the bohemians. Or jeans, beards, pigtails, black sweaters. Those who by such dress want to prove that they are poets, musicians, painters. And the dislike of that uniform among the solitary who are sure enough of their work's value to manage without the paraphernalia. Yet, had they not hidden their profession under the disguise of normal people, they would have been more honest: here we demonstrate in public our shameful stigma of deviants and madmen.
*
I just read this prose poem by Czeslaw Milosz (I prefer calling him Coleslaw Milktoast).
I was hinting at this not too long ago. How people depend on such paraphernalia to ground themselves in some sort of aesthetic found within stereotypes such as hipsters and the slightly newer lumberjack look. New York Magazine has an article about the lumberjack/beard look that many young men and women (city-dwelling men and women!) have been donning. It's an interesting phenomenon: the "disheveled on purpose" mountain-man look. The intellectual mountain-man who can whittle, quote Thoreau, and string a guitar.
I'm really liking like Coleslaw, Mary Oliver, Margaret Atwood, and Diane Ackerman lately. Ackerman is a sensuist wonder. I believe she has a molecule named after her. Atwood's husband is quite the ornithologist. Has some great (but expensive) books out. I'd love to get my paws on his (Graeme Gibson, that is) The Bedside Book of Birds: An Avian Miscellany and The Bedside Book of Beasts.
Today is dedicated to reading and writing. Tomorrow, I shall build an igloo.
Black tea/white out. |
|
|
Pulverized sandstone, potash, and lime are marked
with your prints and reflective eye. Each view
throughout the house is that damned stray cat, following
your stare. Almost makes you want to throw the phone
or a plate at the glass that keeps him contained in his cold
air and endless tree-bark walls that he climbs. And when
up there, the whip-poor-will's blue eye closes
to the cat's crude nail and snare. |
|
|
I'm doing a project. Many projects. But.
If you could be a part of a town. Anything that you see in town. What would you be? I just wrote about a man I know, who I turned into a character. And he wants to play the character of the street light. Rich, the Street Light. And he talks about why he wants to be a street light. And I have memories, of course, of his father Red. Red, a very very old man who died years ago, once pointed a rifle at me and a few of my childhood friends.
And now Rich lives alone without his father. Has a huge yard. And hangs his underwear on the line to dry. In the summer time.
I've been having these really great days. I mean, really great. I don't know how to explain. I'm getting so much accomplished. And feeling so good. And it's continuing. And I don't want it to ever stop. Makes me think of that song.
Sarah...
You're the poet in my heart.
Never change,
and don't you ever stop.
Enough about myself. We got a lot of snow. What else is new. You can read outside at midnight to its brightness. Jeremy came to see me this weekend despite all the harsh roads. And I will do the same for him this upcoming weekend.
Wilson, the rabbit, has celery breath.
Annabelle, the dog, is dreaming.
Loretta, the cat, is gaining weight.
And I am gaining sleepy. |
|
|
I do not have a Twitter account. I do not update my Facebook status every hour, either. I do not broadcast my schedule, menu for the day, a random quirk about myself, or anything like that, really. But I cannot help but be amazed by technology and frightened by it all at once. Tonight, I endeavor to get a Twitter account. I do not text. I hate texting. In fact, I don't even have a cell phone anymore. And it's liberating. I don't need it. But I'm going to get a Twitter account and read tweets and try to understand all the variables a little bit more. I have noticed several things about this UPDATE PHENOMENON.
And all its silly parts. I like calling them silly parts.
Like the fake subtleness of it all. We try and be subtle but what we're doing is Dorian Gray-ing all over the place. Self-awareness'ing all over the place. Wanting attention all over the place. Wanting to be different from everyone else all over the place.
For as long as I can remember, I've been one of those jerks who purposely doesn't like something just because it's popular. I still haven't kicked that habit completely. Here are some examples:
-The TV show "House" (which I like now, but refused to watch with my friends in college)
-Any new TV show that people watch because it's good (and not trash)... I watch the trash instead (sometimes)
-The whole hipster culture (Hipsters drive me insane. And I love/hate how this book I own called "What White People Like" isn't actually a book about what white people like, but what young, mostly white, middle-class, city-folk like.
-Being "green"
-Being "liberal"
-Twitter
-The New Yorker
-Veganism
Don't get me wrong. I respect all and everyone who loves everything I stated above. I will eat vegan food and enjoy it without having to wear a button or chastise someone for eating meat. I can enjoy and care for the environment (and do quite often, might I add) without buying expensive, organic products. I'm not THAT much of a consumer, anyway. I can enjoy indie music, movies, etc., without donning DIY clothing or portraying any sort of "indie" aesthetic.
But I digress (Jeremy says that a lot. I got that from him.) But I digress. Back to the silly parts. What I have also noticed about this whole Twitter culture is the language and esotericism of it all. There are some status updates and tweets that are in plain English but not in plain sense. They are linked to something else or sub-conscious or something something. I don't know. That's why I need to do more research. I don't want to fall behind, either. I hate (but don't...I'm more perturbed than full of hate) that when I'm listening to the news on the radio, the news announcer says something like, "Follow our Tweets..." and I slam my fist on my steering wheel and ask, "WHY?!" But I suppose I'll find out.
And the literature, folks! Wow! Go into any huge bookstore (like Barnes & Noble, where I work) and scout out all the books on Twitter and social networking and ALL of them are from 2009-2010. A lot of them are how-to, but I'm more interested in the psychology and sociology of it all. Which is why I need to dive in and do research. Here's an example, though, of how these things change the way we think:
There is a book out now called Twitterature by Alexander Aciman and Emmitt Rensin. In this book, classics in literature are explained in twenty tweets or fewer. Amazing.
Today at work, a guy came up to me and told me a story about how he was asked to be in a reading experiment when he was a high-schooler. The experiment was in speed-reading and he was trained to focus on only the subject, verb, and maybe a few other words in a sentence. Because of this training, he was unable to get out of it, and therefore lost his passion for reading once he reached college. I asked if he does the same thing with listening and he claimed he did. How terrible would that be? Now, I'm not bashing this book at all. If anything, I giggled when I saw the book, but at the same time (because I'm an avid reader/writer/student), something sank inside me.
And it's still sinking. I need to explore this sinking and shrinking of words. How so much information is portrayed through so little anymore.
|
|
|
I sometimes imagine scruff--even say it to myself, feel your hairs and tugging skin against my tongue and teeth. And the muscles my neck would know-- sternocleidomastoid, trapezius, levator--would be protruding bridges, rising swells of my body that only you could conjure. But I am human and purse my lips at the thought of marking your skin with the crescents of my mouth. And I will try to imagine you, a rising fist from a crib in a morning-dim room, or the source of a thrown spoon spinning across a floor. You soft head me.
You gum gnaw me.
You tint orange me.
You laugh cry me.
You leave me--
without even having come--
wondering where you are,
trying to protect your absence. |
|
|
I hope you marry him,
she says over bacon and eggs. Not looking at me, but across the table as if looking at the two of us together. I analyzed this. Thought to myself, honesty looks you in the eye. But that's not always so. Some honesty needs to look away, across the table. It's a hopeful honesty that envisions and imagines something wonderful. Something that doesn't cast a shadow.
Someday, I want to visit Punxsutawney.
Do the Pennsylvania Polka.
And relive the same day over and over again until I see my own shadow...
...and finally get it right.
|
|
|
A lot of the times, I don't want to bathe right after I sweat. Later on, after the sweat has dried, my skin, it will smell like peanut butter and taste just as salty. Almost sweet. I went for a long run today that left my old Reeboks dark and wet from the mud. I came home misty around the face and hair and haven't showered yet. And I probably won't. It's just me here. And I like it that way, and at the same time, someone's company is always nice and always welcome. I miss Jeremy.
He ate too much last night and he sprawled out on my floor-bed (I don't sleep on my real bed) and I listened to him digest through my stethoscope. And then I listened to his heart. I love hearing him be alive. And feeling him be alive. I love his guts. His smooth skin. His big nose and angly body. His poor thumb and the way he bounces when he is excited or nervous.
I e-mail him a random poem everyday (not my own). I sent him this one today:
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Derek Walcott
*
I am thankful that Jeremy never loses himself and trusts himself. I never want to lose myself and not trust myself. I am all I have, truly.
I recently discovered that a friend I had as a child committed suicide. It makes me want to sit and feast on my life.
And not mind the sweat. |
|
|
I dreamt last night that I was in Israel where I saw Lochness. He was being his usual s-shaped self slithering through the water and making splashes that reached me on the shore. I looked away a lot. And I didn't have a camera.
I also dreamt that I was brutally beaten. But I don't remember who beat me or what the circumstance was.
I don't think I would be afraid if someone's gun was pointed at my head.
I'm on my fourth cup of tea today and I have to work in a few hours. I have to try on bridesmaid dresses tomorrow and the whole process is going to make me utterly miserable. All the mirrors and tightness around my body. The exposed skin. The bad lighting. The spinning and prodding. All the eyes. The little elves and fairies throwing different colors on my body. Cleavage and curves. Can't I just wear a snuggie? And they all laugh something like champagne.
And I haven't had an appetite in 24 hours. I do need to lose about 20 pounds or so.
I think a horse can choose to be a human. I don't like horses. |
|
|
I am in an impulsive mood. I don't usually do anything too crazy. I usually do something lame with my hair or buy a bunch of books. I cut my bangs today. But they're not bangs, per se.
So, I brought the last of my stuff over from my ex's today. I got my turtle! Braeburn. I peeled away her dried scales and set her to sail in her clean tank. I also came across an old photo of me and my dad. I'm about four years old and I'm sitting on his right lap, laughing, my face all squinched up. While I look hysterical, my dad sits there calm, a smirk on his face, one finger tickling my bare foot. In my head, I just thought, "In our old living room." But...it's not our old living room. It's the one we have now, only it is completely different. The green, shaggy carpet was replaced with a pinkish, now pet-stained carpet. The wooden paneling is now painted over with white to bring more light into the room. The furniture has changed. In the picture, we're on a recliner. We have two couches now. I wish we had a recliner. I remember having to manually switch the stations on our old TV set.
I miss manualism. Hands. Manos.
I was watching the History Channel today and there was a documentary about snackfood. All those machines are amazing. There are scientists and engineers out there that make a living creating and maintaining machines that simply flip donuts over in the frying conveyor belt. Who graduates college and says, "Yeah, my dream is to invent a machine that separates the too-dark and too-light pieces of jerky on the conveyor belt." Everything you look at that surrounds you...there is some soul out there who dedicates their life to it.
Amazing.
This reminds me of a story in a book I'm reading. The book is called Sum: forty tales from the afterlives. The stories are incredibly short and they all represent a [fictional, very imaginative] idea of an after-life. I've only read four so far. I'm reading them along with Jeremy and we're only to the fourth story. All of them are astounding. The author is David Eagleman. Anyway, there is one story in there called "Circle of Friends". In this afterlife, you are surrounded by the people that you remember from the life you lived. Your friends, family, crushes, acquaintences, etc. Great, right? You still have contact with them! But then you get bored. There's nothing new to learn. No one new to talk to. All the industries are abandoned because you never knew anyone who worked in a snackfood factory. You never knew someone in the movie industry. Here is the final paragraph:
The missing crowds make you lonely. You begin to complain about all the people you could be meeting. But no one listens or sympathizes with you, because this is precisely what you chose when you were alive.
The stories are great. I'm only on page thirteen and I already recommend it. The stories are only about 2-3 pages long.
I taught a class yesterday and we read the poem The Washerwoman by Veronica Volkow. I mentioned the story above and I mentioned just how profound and interesting the Average-Joe can be.
So, Wilson, my bunny, is hungry. I keep all the bunny food/paraphernalia in a cardboard box. He jumped right into the box and stuck his head in the bag of dry food and went to town. I put some in my hand and he ate from my hand. Oh, and he humped my arm yesterday. Poor little guy.
I saw The Lovely Bones. Depressing. But good. I read the book last year. I figured that if I liked the film Heavenly Creatures, then I would like another Peter Jackson drama. I was correct. I've been on a tiny read-a-book-that-will-be-a-movie kick. I read Push which was an all right book. The film Precious was a little boring. Caught myself daydreaming. But Monique and the girl who played the main character were good. I also read The Road but I haven't seen the movie yet because it isn't in any theaters near me. I mostly want to see it because part of it takes place in an abandoned tunnel in Breezwood. That is where Jeremy and I had our first date. I'm slowly reading Youth In Revolt right now. But nowhere near half an inch into the book. I've been busy.
Speaking of busy...
|
|
|
I learned a new name yesterday. Siobhan. Supposedly, there's a girl in my poetry class named Siobhan. It means "God is gracious" and it is pronounced like shih-VON. I've heard that name before--have spelled it in my mind--but never saw it spelled like that. It's Irish. And I was reading a poem of hers and I really loved a short, three-word phrase she wrote:
haunt of indigo
There's a poem brewing in my mind right now, but it is too personal to share with the non-face faces of the internet world. But I think I will use the phrase "So on purpose" somewhere in it. Which reminds me [Monty Python, anyone?] And now for something completely different!
I've been growing very intrigued and frightened by technology lately. The whole Twitter phenomenon. And Facebook phenomenon. How people just love to indirectly torture someone else these days. Be it through status updates or tweets. How misconstrued everything could be. This isn't my problem. I'm not talking about this because I'm experiencing it (because I'm not). I'm talking about this because I witness and I can imagine. I wonder how many pre-teens and teenagers post their melodramatic suicide notes online everyday. Or fight with their parents that way. I know my nephew has done that and that interests me--how easy it is for everyone these days to broadcast exactly what they're feeling. And children are so handy to it. It's so ingrained into their lives. "Of course I'm going to tweet that I just ate Cap 'N Crunch and that I'm leaving for school."
Who cares?!
Everyone.
Everyone (almost) is so addicted to knowing the mundane details of everyone's life. It's a one-way conversation (unless you respond or "like"). A documentary. It beats the typical mundane "How are you?" and goes straight to "reading Integrating physiology and life history to improve fisheries management and conservation."
So much more interesting.
But what is even more interesting is the strange connections that it makes. One moment, you can learn that your sister is pregnant. The next moment, you can learn that someone's car broke down and they need a ride. Not too long ago, some guy that is on my friend's list on Facebook left a status asking for help because his car broke down. Because of his ability to use Facebook through his phone, he was able to get help beyond what just having a cell-phone could do. Fascinating. The connections. When you see your sister in all her pregnant glowing-ness, you'll think about so-and-so whose car broke down because your brain made that connection. Isn't that...astounding?
Remember, Sarah.
"So on purpose."
|
|
|
My mother is cleaning the oven and it stinks. So it made me think of smells. It made me wonder about which smells come to my mind first, so I'll do that now. I'll just jot the first ten that come to mind. I'm a real smell-whore.
1. Oven stank
2. Old Spice original deodorant
3. Garnier Fructise hair styling spooge
4. Spooge
5. Bacon
6. Patchouli
7. That rubbery-plastic smell that wafts off wading pools
8. Steam
9. Algae
10. Lavendar
And what do all these remind me of?
1. "We can't use the bottom stove because I didn't clean it after the mess from Thanksgiving."
2. Inside the abandoned tunnel in Breezewood.
3. My hands through Jeremy's hair.
4. Breathless and big-eyed
5. Bread crumbs on my bunny's fur
6. bed pillow
7. My neighbor telling me not to scratch my inner-thigh
8. Realizing how wonderful a hot shower really was
9. My turtles and damp summer days running on Kepple Road
10. Putting clothes on
|
|
|
And last night, when I finally fell asleep, I dreamt about being on a large river boat full of packages and junk. I had to transfer all the packages and junk to a hotel I was staying at with an old man. The old man was pretty cold to me throughout the majority of my dream. But then I took a really close look at him and thought, Hey, I think that's Charles Bukowski. So, I looked at him and said, "Buk?"
He gave me the most loving smile that I wish I could convey in words. Oh, Buk.
I had the hardest time getting to sleep. I had a headache that kept me awake. I've never had that happen before. And as it happened, I thought to myself, This has never happened to me. And the fact that I kept thinking about it kept me up longer. I couldn't believe it. It was late and I was tired and warm. Why was I not sleeping?
I'm leaving soon to visit my boyfriend Jeremy in Altoona. I'm excited. But there's a few things I need to do first.
Every hard worker deserves a clone.
|
|
|
I keep dreaming that I need to use the bathroom. Over the past few days, I must have visited (in my dreams) seven different public stalls. One public bathroom was for men and women and there were no stalls. Just toilets. Rows and rows of toilets. And as soon as I sat down, alone, all these older Bingo-playing-looking type of people came and sat on the toilets surrounding me. Tried talking to me as I'm trying to squeeze one out. So, I got up, pants still at my ankles, and walked to the corner of the bathroom to sit alone again. I've been waking up a lot too, in the middle of the night. And no, I don't have to go to the bathroom when I wake up. I wonder what the deal is.
Could it be the Nyquil?
Not too long ago, I obtained a rabbit. I named him Wilson. And he grunts. And two days ago, I saw his penis for the first time. It made me very uncomfortable. But I do like the grunting. I had no idea that bunnies grunted. And I do not mind the cocoa puff pooplets.
And the bunny's nose wiggles constantly. But it stops, too. So, it must be voluntary. It's not like blinking, is it? We blink when it's necessary or when we're trying to get a specific emotion across. But why do bunnies voluntarily wiggle their nose? The muscles that must be involved, wow. What part of the brain does that work? I wonder if all the usage of that part of their brain affects their intelligence. He's not a dumb rabbit.
I should really look all this stuff up.
But I have a lot to do.
|
|
|
The sun has been out the past few days. I like walking in it and even talking in it. But I don't like driving in it. When driving, I like to name all the colors I see. And the sun just blanches everything. Yesterday, while driving to school, I got a watery ache in the back of my head and the visor did nothing to help. I could wear sunglasses, but I can't find any. The pair that I do have in my car is a pair that I stole from a lost-and-found at work and it wasn't until I tried them on in my car that I realized they were huge on me. The previous owner, I have concluded, was a man with a huge head. A lot of gray matter, perhaps. I can picture him in a long, dark overcoat and a newspaper tucked under his elbow. Especially if he's a shopper at Barnes & Noble. This type of man is easy to conclude because this man is most of the older men in the Fox Chapel region.
I can hear the icicles falling off the gutter. Today, I was sitting outside on the porch swing, and I watched a Common House Sparrow perch on top of the small hose spigot and dip its little beak into the spigot for some cool water. I thought, how clever. And then I thought of my drive to work today and how I'll again be the object of the sun's vendetta and therefore I will think of the sparrow and its little bones and little gray matter and the electricity that sparks across its little brain. And I'll feel better. I hope.
I have so much to do. It's a good thing that I like the dark because I'll be its companion all night long.
|
|
|
I read The Gardener today... a poem by Stephen Dobyns. I liked some of the words/phrases.
astronauts
god discovered
a little brich cottage
vicinity of venus
luther
trotted out
dante
blood from a turnip
cherubim
fly in figure eights
famous orchard
ex-deity
experiment with animal life
eden
cabages and beets
flowering quince
a hudred varieties of rose
he made the birds
scarecrow
give the creature his own face
predators
a little homunculus
living mirror
lesser tricks
his friend the devil
small human creatures
frolic in the grass
like children
smiled down
shrugged his hand
white stones
god had said
feed
bodies
bicker
fight
trample
banging the bars of the great gte
chance
I like "he made the birds"...
Which led to me wondering about bird anatomy. Raptorial (rapture!). Anisodactyl (dinosaurial/prehistorical). Carpometacarpus. Pollex.
I have a dead bird decaying in my garage. I put it there last fall. Both my mother and father came across it but something divine told them that it was mine, so they let it be.
Thank you, something divine. |
|
|
I like this quote, but I like half the quote better than the whole. “Everything is full of fleeing.” I believe there are roads. I believe that everything is full of some fullness. Some amazing capacity. Or not capacity. A limitlessness. Capacity denotes limitation.
Everyone likes to feel limitless and… that very juvenile term that I used to like but don’t like anymore due to pop lit and pop music: “Invincible”.
There was one moment in my life where I felt invincible. And all I have of a past is juvenile because I’m still young. The day was January 22, but I forget which year. It was a cold day and school ended. I was in my house and felt invincible. So, when you feel invincible, you feel that you need more physical space. Or so that’s how I felt. So I went outside. I ran. And I ran. I ran up Horne Boulevard and down Fifth Avenue. I saw my reflection in store windows. It was cold and my lungs burned. I had no reason to feel the way I did and I had no reason to not feel the way I did. But it was wonderful and of course, obviously, I remember. There are no details to share, really. Because it was all emotion.
I feel great a lot of times. I feel powerful. But because I don’t like the fashion of that word, I decide that it’s not for me. There are many more words to feel and wear around my neck a little while. |
|
|
I think you make me nervous,
you said, when you tried to play for me.
The bell of your sax
turning away reflected landscapes
of the home we used to share.
Where you, on your knees,
at the top of the steps, wailed
my name. Your fingers cringed
in our stale air that I finally
decided to expel in screams:
Let me go.
I came back tonight,
but you do not know
my form in these shadows
and silences outside your window.
I will shape myself in any darkness,
turn myself requiem for midnights
like this. Where on my knees,
I can hear your air claim joy,
remember how everything
you ever touched
would sing.
|
|
|
NESS CITY, KAN. - Deputies said a woman in
western Kansas sat on her boyfriend's toilet
for two years, and they're investigating whether
she was mistreated.
-MSNBC Associated Press, March 12, 2008
I did all I could.
That day, we went to the Wal-Mart, bought skeins of red and orange yarn.
She wanted to crochet a blanket for our bed before winter. It was October,
we smelled the leaves from the open windows of the car and for the hell of it
I asked her if she remembered the first time I told her I loved her. She didn't answer,
but I knew she remembered by the way she looked out at the changing trees.
Not much happened that day. We got the yarn, went to Taco Bell 'cause it was
the end of the month and my homemade left-overs seemed older than the re-runs
we watched when we got home. We were just sitting here on the couch, she grabbed
my thigh like this and said honey, I gotta go to the bathroom and I thought nothing of it,
just like how I thought nothing of her setting the beginnings and strings of our afghan
all on my lap as she got up. She never came back down...
...After a while, the afghan got hot on my lap. Those reds and oranges like fire.
I didn't hear anything stirring upstairs, so I went up to see if everything was okay.
I found her just sitting there, elbows on her knees, goosebumps on her legs.
I asked her if something was wrong and she said No, nothing. Nothing at all.
Get me my yarn, I'm cold. Turn up the TV. So I did everything that she told me.
But then I'd do more. You know, I'd bring in the bedspread and lay my head
at her purpling feet. I'd massage her legs and she'd yell at me, tell me
to leave her alone, that she didn't need me. Her face would be red like the veins
of yarn in the growing blanket that covered her numbing legs. When she was asleep,
or even sometimes when she was awake, I'd scratch and pinch at her toes, tell her
that she's not okay. I would lift her breasts, soak them clean, tell her she needs help,
but she would just snap. Grab me by my beard, bite me, cover her atrophied legs
with our blanket the color of the day I told her I loved her.
That gun you found there, officer, was always in her hands and at our heads.
I was not allowed to leave the house. She kept the yellow pages and the cordless
close at hand, making me call grocers, markets, and psychics that accepted
my money but not my begging for help. She tore down the blinds
from the bathroom window and fashioned constraints that turned her hands
odd shades of blue. I didn't know what to do. I cried into our blanket every night.
See that picture over there, I used to be heavier, both of us, happier. I didn't know
what to do. Oh my God, I didn't know what to do. Now people keep asking me why
it took two years for me to call the cops, tell them something was going on with her.
But you know, I'm torn. Two long years ago she sat right down and didn't get back up,
but wasn't it yesterday that she was wearing her favorite sweater, that I told her
I loved her underneath changing maples? That me just being there roused her?
Wasn't that yesterday?
|
|
|
picking up trash right now along 9 Mile Run with other students being forced to care about the environment. Thinking I was on time for the event, I was an hour early and left, so here I am at home, stilled on my porch with chamomile, looking at the ruinous fall in my backyard. In class next week, they might discuss the facts and statistics of trash, how much they gathered, how delicious their organic lunches were. That they did not mind touching the half-empty bottles of beer or water. That they would do it again and again as if caring were new, a celebration. I will sit silent, remembering how the wind blew the stems of blossomed roses over the graves of the cleomies. How I planted that rose bush in a bed of old potatoes. How I uprooted the other rose bush to plant the white dogwood, carefully cover it in plastic to shield it from the frost. How a slug, too, stilled near the dog dish, as if thinking about what it should be doing, but isn’t. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
sarah_ansani's journal