This is one Wes is practicing. He is making progress...good, steady. We talk about the song. He asks me about what it was like to live in the 60s, about the Vietnam war, about what I thought, about where I was and where my dad was, about how true this song still is today, about Iraq, about the mess this country is in, about where to go from here.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Dante decided
he'd had enough of Molly (he decides that every
time he comes in contact with her, but tonight
he was particularly adamant), and so he struck
her several times, but Molly kept coming back for more,
so, I grabbed Molly's paws and we started dancing.
I was already singing
I'm Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the 8th
blah, blah, blah, blah
was stuck in my head
had just watched a show on PBS about Atlantic
Records (no Herman's Hermits but somebody,
some song, some person on there got me started
on Henry)
so Molly and I danced and Dante hissed and I kept
singing and I opened the door and let Dante out
and kept dancing with Molly
and then realized I had more clothes to do
and a light bulb to replace (above the sink--high
up--I hate to do it but I asked and didn't get
any takers)
and so I changed it and Molly and I danced
some more until I had to go work
and Wes is practicing guitar--I love it, love it
I have requests all ready for him--he's working
on a few--some CCR
and I folded a load and started a load and put another
in the dryer
and damn if I didn't fix an ass-kicking good salad
tonight--a Rachael Ray 30 minute meals special
1 head romaine, washed and chopped
1/2 red onion, sliced thin
4-5 radishes, sliced thin
2 red delicious apples, cored, seeded and sliced thin
sprinkled with the juice of one lemon
mix that stuff together
(just trying to remember here)
In a bowl, mix together:
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup EVOO (extra virgin olive oil--learn the lingo)
whisk that together
then add 1/2 cup sour cream, 1 tsp poppy seed and 2
tbsp (I think) chopped fresh dill. Mix well.
I may be wrong about some of the measurements.
Been wrong before. But I think that's right.
Pour the dressing over the salad. Mix. Serve. Eat.
And eat, and eat, and eat. It was so good!
I crashed at 7:30 last night. I can't sleep tonight.
I'll be paying for this big time tomorrow.
Yikes.
he'd had enough of Molly (he decides that every
time he comes in contact with her, but tonight
he was particularly adamant), and so he struck
her several times, but Molly kept coming back for more,
so, I grabbed Molly's paws and we started dancing.
I was already singing
I'm Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the 8th
blah, blah, blah, blah
was stuck in my head
had just watched a show on PBS about Atlantic
Records (no Herman's Hermits but somebody,
some song, some person on there got me started
on Henry)
so Molly and I danced and Dante hissed and I kept
singing and I opened the door and let Dante out
and kept dancing with Molly
and then realized I had more clothes to do
and a light bulb to replace (above the sink--high
up--I hate to do it but I asked and didn't get
any takers)
and so I changed it and Molly and I danced
some more until I had to go work
and Wes is practicing guitar--I love it, love it
I have requests all ready for him--he's working
on a few--some CCR
and I folded a load and started a load and put another
in the dryer
and damn if I didn't fix an ass-kicking good salad
tonight--a Rachael Ray 30 minute meals special
1 head romaine, washed and chopped
1/2 red onion, sliced thin
4-5 radishes, sliced thin
2 red delicious apples, cored, seeded and sliced thin
sprinkled with the juice of one lemon
mix that stuff together
(just trying to remember here)
In a bowl, mix together:
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup EVOO (extra virgin olive oil--learn the lingo)
whisk that together
then add 1/2 cup sour cream, 1 tsp poppy seed and 2
tbsp (I think) chopped fresh dill. Mix well.
I may be wrong about some of the measurements.
Been wrong before. But I think that's right.
Pour the dressing over the salad. Mix. Serve. Eat.
And eat, and eat, and eat. It was so good!
I crashed at 7:30 last night. I can't sleep tonight.
I'll be paying for this big time tomorrow.
Yikes.
Who Am I?
Mother, wife, daughter.
Aunt, niece, cousin.
Sister, great aunt, soon to be
grandmother.
Once a student, once a teacher.
Once an employee. Once a believer.
Once a good listener. Once a young
girl. Once a water-skier, tennis player,
880 and the mile competitor, an artist,
a believer.
Who am I who watches the primrose
take over the garden beds? The woman
who walks her red dog in the evenings,
the one who watches out her windows
and screens, the one who still paints
her face every day though usually
not until half the day is past before
she realizes half the day is past.
Who am I who talks to my son
about poetry and literature, about Hugo
and Ferlinghetti, about Collins and Sexton,
about conjugating verbs and adjective
overkill. Who watches him go from
pubescence to young man overnight.
Who am I who wears the same black
skirt every day, who cooks lavish
meals every night, who drowns herself
in a bottle most nights, who can't sleep
well, who walks two miles a day, who wonders
how I got here to this place of not knowing
what to believe
Who am I that anyone should love,
should say You have the nicest smile
and beautiful eyes, whose eyes are puffy
not just in the morning but all day,
whose heart hurts and whose lungs
must endure her abuse, whose brain
got whacked somewhere along the line,
whose feet hurt every night.
Who are you that you can sit here
in the quiet of this room and entertain
who you are, as if in entertaining
you could get some slice of flavor,
cucumber or biscotti, to tempt
you to be who you are, the non-
believer in disguise.
Mother, wife, daughter.
Aunt, niece, cousin.
Sister, great aunt, soon to be
grandmother.
Once a student, once a teacher.
Once an employee. Once a believer.
Once a good listener. Once a young
girl. Once a water-skier, tennis player,
880 and the mile competitor, an artist,
a believer.
Who am I who watches the primrose
take over the garden beds? The woman
who walks her red dog in the evenings,
the one who watches out her windows
and screens, the one who still paints
her face every day though usually
not until half the day is past before
she realizes half the day is past.
Who am I who talks to my son
about poetry and literature, about Hugo
and Ferlinghetti, about Collins and Sexton,
about conjugating verbs and adjective
overkill. Who watches him go from
pubescence to young man overnight.
Who am I who wears the same black
skirt every day, who cooks lavish
meals every night, who drowns herself
in a bottle most nights, who can't sleep
well, who walks two miles a day, who wonders
how I got here to this place of not knowing
what to believe
Who am I that anyone should love,
should say You have the nicest smile
and beautiful eyes, whose eyes are puffy
not just in the morning but all day,
whose heart hurts and whose lungs
must endure her abuse, whose brain
got whacked somewhere along the line,
whose feet hurt every night.
Who are you that you can sit here
in the quiet of this room and entertain
who you are, as if in entertaining
you could get some slice of flavor,
cucumber or biscotti, to tempt
you to be who you are, the non-
believer in disguise.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Can't Stop
Was on the porch and started thinking
about confessions. Not a catholic. Not anything.
Why confess anything? Why think? How to stop?
Don't want to stop.
Lucinda came to mind. This song came to mind.
*
Blue
Go find a jukebox
and see what a quarter will do
I don't wanna talk
I just wanna go back to blue
Feed's me when I'm hungry
and quenches my thirst
Loves me when I'm lonely
and thinks of me first
Blue is the color of night
When the red sun
Disappears from the sky
Raven feathers
shiny and black
A touch of blue
glistening down her back
We don't talk about heaven
and we don't talk about hell
We come to depend on one another
so damn well
So go to confession
whatever gets you through
You can count your blessings
I'll just count on blue
Blue is the color of night
When the red sun
Disappears from the sky
Raven feathers
shiny and black
A touch of blue glistening down her back
Blue
Was on the porch and started thinking
about confessions. Not a catholic. Not anything.
Why confess anything? Why think? How to stop?
Don't want to stop.
Lucinda came to mind. This song came to mind.
*
Blue
Go find a jukebox
and see what a quarter will do
I don't wanna talk
I just wanna go back to blue
Feed's me when I'm hungry
and quenches my thirst
Loves me when I'm lonely
and thinks of me first
Blue is the color of night
When the red sun
Disappears from the sky
Raven feathers
shiny and black
A touch of blue
glistening down her back
We don't talk about heaven
and we don't talk about hell
We come to depend on one another
so damn well
So go to confession
whatever gets you through
You can count your blessings
I'll just count on blue
Blue is the color of night
When the red sun
Disappears from the sky
Raven feathers
shiny and black
A touch of blue glistening down her back
Blue
Observations
It feels slightly like mania
setting in, again, after a very long absence.
*
Billy Collins says that poets are always looking out
their windows. I think he may be right.
I do the next best thing. I sit on my porch and look
out the weathered screens.
A cardinal sits on the next door neighbor's porch
rail. A male. Vibrant red.
A man carrying a large, white bundle over his shoulders,
crosses the street and walks through the driveway next door.
Two cars pull into the driveway next door.
Primrose grows in the gardens I have planted which border
the brick walk out front. My mother gave them to me.
She says my great-grandmother planted them. She gave
them to me though this is the first year they have completely
taken off and over.
I've always thought it rude to look too much, but how can
I see if I don't look too much. So, I keep looking.
A young man with a rather large backpack pedals
past on his bike. Where is he going? What's in that
large pack on his back?
A young woman in black pants and a blue shirt
carries a blonde curly-haired baby in her arms.
Someone mows the yard next door.
Someone else picks up sticks.
What appears to be the same young man who earlier
carried the large white sack now walks back through
the yard next door, shirtless, one hand carrying a dark
shirt draped over his shoulder.
A hummingbird flits among the rhododendron blossoms.
It feels slightly like mania
setting in, again, after a very long absence.
*
Billy Collins says that poets are always looking out
their windows. I think he may be right.
I do the next best thing. I sit on my porch and look
out the weathered screens.
A cardinal sits on the next door neighbor's porch
rail. A male. Vibrant red.
A man carrying a large, white bundle over his shoulders,
crosses the street and walks through the driveway next door.
Two cars pull into the driveway next door.
Primrose grows in the gardens I have planted which border
the brick walk out front. My mother gave them to me.
She says my great-grandmother planted them. She gave
them to me though this is the first year they have completely
taken off and over.
I've always thought it rude to look too much, but how can
I see if I don't look too much. So, I keep looking.
A young man with a rather large backpack pedals
past on his bike. Where is he going? What's in that
large pack on his back?
A young woman in black pants and a blue shirt
carries a blonde curly-haired baby in her arms.
Someone mows the yard next door.
Someone else picks up sticks.
What appears to be the same young man who earlier
carried the large white sack now walks back through
the yard next door, shirtless, one hand carrying a dark
shirt draped over his shoulder.
A hummingbird flits among the rhododendron blossoms.
R.E.M. - Losing My Religion
Been in an REM and Nirvana mood all morning. This is on repeat...next up--Nirvana--Jesus Don't Want Me For A Sunbeam
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