I've Been Busy
OKAY. I've hardly been around dA in the last three days and I feel so behind I've been doing quite a lot of running about the last few days, but it's for good reasons.
Doc is getting better, but he still hurts if he does too much. He can take his arm out of the sling and move it around a little, but can't really use his right hand yet. Wednesday was the first time I'd seen him in a month. I showed up to be a friend while he tackled his first class of the semester. Luckily, he's only teaching Wednesday evenings this year, so maybe that won't be so hard on him.
Friday and Saturday, I was helping Mary Ellen with her yard sale since Doc couldn't be there. I was out in the cold almost seven hours, both days. I wore gloves on Friday and my hands still got rubbed raw. I tried putting lotion on them yesterday and that made it burn. I don't think it's supposed to do that.
But, the night before Doc called me, telling me to take off with anything I wanted. I wasn't really planning to, but Mary Ellen insisted I take the cocoa maker. I also walked off with a really nice tea tray table thing that didn't sell. In a moment of delightful timing, I was telling Mom about the day while at IHOP, including some really nice bookshelves they were getting rid of. Turns out, the very day before Mom had been talking to Dad about getting some for her office space. So she came down yesterday and bought one, and Mary Ellen let her have the matching one for free.
We had to bring Pops (and his truck) along because those bookshelves were not going to fit in her car. So then Mimi wanted to come along too, and long story short everyone ended up eating spaghetti at my parents house.
Doc and Mary Ellen are downsizing from a two-story, three bedroom house to a condo downtown, so you can imagine how much stuff we were going through She'd never even been to a yard sale before, never mind hosted one. I tried to warm her that yard-salers were a crazy breed. We got swamped as soon as she opened the garage at 9am.
Anyway, today I met them at the radio station today to do one more Fact About Fiction recording for Beatrix Potter. We also finally brought in the seventh grader who wrote a script on Shel Silverstein to record as well. Then they treated me to lunch and wouldn't stop thanking me for all the support and I kept getting that embarrassed-but-quietly-pleased feeling.
Somewhere in-between all of that, it was our weekend with Russ and he's gotten to be a handful lately. He doesn't take to naptime as easily as he used to and is pretty much constantly moving unless Mickey or Dora is on TV. I've been trying to take him out as often as I can, usually to the library or Nana's (my Mom). When it's a little warmer, we'll go to the park. I think I'll take him with me tomorrow to meet Mary Ellen; we're doing lunch again, and I have a few things I need to pick up from the yard sale that I couldn't take with me.
And that's why I've been too tired to bother with dA this week.
WorldWar-Tori is hosting a title poetry contest
Multhaiku is looking for deviants to write articles for February's HaikuWriMo.
The Glory-Be-Project is still in the early days if you want to jump in!
LiteratureRoadtrip is holding a contest.
Human Trafficking Awareness Contest
things I'd like to tell you - a shortlistv. If I knew of a way to fuse our brain synapses together and show you that I love you, well – I probably wouldn’t do it. Because that’s creepy. And also I don’t have a medical degree. So until I get a medical degree and potentially break a few laws in the name of passion or science, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I love you. I love you. If love is a thing caused by rushes of dopamine, I’m probably suffering from dopamine toxicity. The doctors should probably check me for that.
iv. I want you to know about my band posters. Isn’t that weird? I want you to know that I can be crazy about things, and that sometimes I close my eyes and I’m a ten-year-old who wants to be a horse-whisperer again. Mostly I want you to know that I’m crazy about you.
iii. I want to know things about you – like, I want to know if you prefer winter or summer. And I want to groan-but-not-actually-judge-you when you say winter, because ever
wandererI'd like to die someday
In the rocking chair, where you'd nurse me to sleep
On a Wednesday afternoon when the air is cold and damp
I want to feel your presence
As the dry summer skies give in, to the shadowing mountains
As dusk creeps in, and the pang of our yesterdays soak in
Caressing my ache in your hands
Whispering the words which so much lingered
Against thick, mosquito warriors
Running to the dam
Floating amongst it's cool, dressed fully and weary
The heat of the day dancing with our sanity
I miss the foggy grass
It's dry surface, cool roots
Talking of things we'd like to do, singing of worlds we'd never see
I long for the summertime
Before the slowly rotting boards, were torn from below us
Goodnight my love
the galaxy stops for no onethe galaxy and its nebulae children
didn't shed cosmic tears for her;
(it vanished and cascaded at the speed
of light instead; [[each molecule an overdose
of euphoria and einstein epiphanies]]
and it never once thought of
it took her doses of crooked and misshapen
centuries to realize
that she never should have
trusted her heart to a stranger,
The Only Things I Read These Days Are TitlesBooks feel like strangers now;
I am alone in a room with four hundred souls,
sleeping quietly amongst
the heat of their bodies, turned
They have watched me too many times
pulling myself from my skin
through a hundred tiny
I do not blame them for their silence.
The people who know me are silent, too.
The gradual decline of my ability to speak
begins with my inability to separate
and ends with my reluctance to
continue producing proteins
for you to use,
to draw from my mouth with your tongue.
Seven years of recycling cells will never
remove the chaos of you from
the quintessence of me.
I will never separate
the poet's soulThe best advice anyone
ever gave me about poetry:
"Poets don't write in
vague abstractions –
they turn the abstract
into a living,
They find meaning
in something ordinary."
More than rhyme or
verse or meter or
crisp clarity of words:
what it means to be
a poet, aside from one
who writes poetry, is one
who sees the world for more
than it is: a poet is
night terrorsit is only when my neighborhood sleeps
underneath the orange lamplight
and layers of indigo clouds,
that i notice that the house’s walls
are spreading further and further apart,
and the majority of the rooms
are empty and friendless,
collecting dust like hoarders.
the silence buzzes in my ears
and settles on my carcass shoulders
like a vulture: i grasp frantically
at the hum of cars passing
and the soft thud of my sister
turning over in her sleep
to remind myself that
there are seven billion others,
even if they aren’t here with me.
i start to feel the space between my fingers
and the nothing wrapping around my body,
and a deep well of inky blues and greens
drips into me and stains my paper thoughts,
so i try to stuff my head with pastel pinks:
novels, melodies, and conversation leftovers,
to contrast the dark inkblots.
i realize that i will need
either a big house with lots of people
who never succumb to sleep,
or a postage stamp apartment
all to myself or with one other