Building Materials

I planted a man outside my living room window, a seven-foot tall stick figure with wavy, wiry hair. I found him at Mathy’s Garden Center and conscripted him to hold my new bird feeders. It wasn’t what he was designed for, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I still fill the old bird feeders, but they’re too far away from my window to get the best view. All my bird books are out on the coffee table, along with a pair of binoculars. Although the neighbors across the street probably think I’m perverted, I’m just trying to learn all the visitors’ names. So far I’m still very generic, warbler (very yellow on the belly, but kind of mottled about the head), hummingbird (green back), flycatcher, chickadee, finch, woodpecker (downy or hairy, I’m not sure). The juvenile cardinals look hilarious, with their half-mohawk style. Maybe by next year I’ll get this bird thing down. Or the neighbors will call the cops on me. Either way, it will be something learned.

Book news:

The Liam Rector book finally came today. I’m ready. Simic is technically perfect, I think, but not pulling me hard enough to dive in. Ferlinghetti is growing on me. Tom has borrowed all my Denis Johnson, fiction and poetry, along with the Anchor Book of Short Stories, and taken the lot to Kalamazoo. I’m happy with what he’s reading and at the same time hoping he finishes them up soon. I’ve grown attached to those books and hate to have them travel so. Children are the great appropriators of the trappings of their parents’ lives. So it goes.

Time for the Bucket Again

Yes, Wednesday night at the Bucket, although I will admit it's a little soon. But we'll try it. I hope to see you there.

Aging Passion

The world ages.

Talia loaned me Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind. This is my first taste of Ferlinghetti. The copy she loaned me is 50 years old, and I can feel it. Back then it cost $1.00. The Beat flavor is unmistakable. There’s a photo on the back of the book, Ferlinghetti at 38. So he must be around 88 now. I found a recent photo of him. He is rounder. He has white hair. I want to read something recent that he has written, to see how his insides have changed. The heavy alliteration from the fifties drives me crazy, as do the rhythms, but still, I like what he has to say. I’m reminded of what Tom’s jazz improvisation prof told him last week after his first solo, “That was just amazing, for the thirties.” No, no, I’m not dissing on Ferlinghetti, just remarking on the passing of time. I want that passion, but not that old style.

A Morning Alone

I've been neglecting the blog. There is no lack of desire, simply a lack of time.

I have to pass my fourth semester of French in the spring, so I'm sitting in on the third-semester French class to review something I haven't thought about in 25 years. The memory of how to speak that language is buried under so many layers of life. Pulling it up from the bottom of that well is taking a bit of effort. Reading French is going well, but trying to compose a sentence... It's a lot like my poetry writing, painfully slow.

Creekside, everything is as it's always been: in a constant state of change. The August floods rewrote the banks. Giant tree snags unanchored briefly to sail downstream. The duckweed is regenerating. My thoughts are turning towards fire, socks, and burning leaves.

Weather Permitting

Astride a jagged black gash,
a gerrymandered line, women vice
in wielding eraser thighs.

Screw the context. The weather bites
fine. Flay pumpkinseed. Dust
cornmeal. Cast your net
on the other side.

Consensus

Facility of Mind

Haystack Dinner

My family and I are heading out to Middlebury tonight for an Amish haystack dinner and auction, an annual fundraising event I can't bear to miss. A couple of years ago I bought a rain barrel out there for $5! In my eyes, it's a writer's dream (including a very cheap meal - donation only.) If anyone is interested in going with us, send me an e-mail today. We'd love to have you come.

Stamping of Hooves

Talia is stamping her foot, waiting for a report. What went on out in the field? Wait, wait. That's another story. Where was I? Did someone say something? What went on inside the Bucket? Or outside the Bucket? Really, there is not much to say. We are continuing our quest to take over the world. From the outside. It will either be an insurrection or a resurrection. There were eight of us. We are all sworn to secrecy. A few books were exchanged. The pedigree of the white stallion has been established. We have an outpost on the moon. Margie lives there, with her bastard son who doesn't wear shoes. We all wore black, either for obscurity of mourning. No one was sure. There was some talk of late payments, some talk of dreams. Prostitution on the railroad tracks is not a pretty thing. I would have taken pictures, but that would be absurd.

Dr. Juma

Jesus and Gloria sent me this pick in July. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Click on the pic and all will become larger than life... If you haven't run off post haste to Dr. Juma, I expect to see you at the writers' thing.