Harmony of Angels

My daughter Jojo is in the living room, practicing on the piano, a simple piece by Burgmuller, Opus 100, No. 21, called Harmony of Angels, and I'm dead jealous. No, not of Jojo. She plays extremely well, but I can play the piece, too. It's quite simple, the version she has. Nah, I'm jealous of Burgmuller, and the music writers in general, how well they do what they do. I can tell you all about the piece, the time signature, the key, the triplets, but it's the actual sound in your ears that conveys the amazing feel, the wings. Two measures in and you're feeling something! The sound reaches the inside parts. I think poetry and fiction can do that, but it is hard! So hard. And so few do it. I should have been diligent and practiced the piano more! I know, I know, words can take you farther, if you choose them well, but I want the meaning and the feeling! What's that line from the song we both like, Jesus? "Is it too much to demand, I want a full house and a rock and roll band." Then I want everyone to go home so I can clean up the mess and write about it.

Write Right Write

If you're the sort who keeps up with this kind of thing, the turnout at The Bucket last night for workshopping was wonderful. Ten people came and we workshopped seven poems! We endured the juke box. We ate and drank and smoked and laughed and talked about many things... And we even ended by 10:00! I'll post the new schedule shortly. While you're waiting with great anticipation, write something new!

No Till Gardening

Jojo is holding this awesome snake that Tom disturbed while mowing today. Jojo is giving him a pep talk about finding someplace to lie low for the winter, preferably not in the middle of the yard. And to think, whenever my grandma saw one of these babies she'd start screaming, get the hoe! Then she'd get the hoe.

Always a Sucker for Another Quiz

Thanks to Greg Rappleye's site for another fun quiz to confirm what we already know about ourselves. We are the ones answering these questions, right?

You Are 60% Left Brained, 40% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

Workshop Friday at Chicory Cafe

Don't forget! The weather is perfect for cafe'ing it. So drag yourself over there, or whatever it takes.

At Two

(Thanks for the help, everyone!)

Because you fall awake
at two with the dogs,
the stars, the absence
of the moon, the other, you

------------------------brood over

the lack of gravity,
the turning from,
the cavernous want
of turning to.

Consumption Blues

Check out What if Everyone Consumed Like You. Unfortunately, if everyone consumed like I do it would take 5.3 earths to support us all, and I consider myself a fairly conservative consumer (good thing they didn't ask how many books I buy.) Play the game and let me know how many earths your clones would consume.

I've already made a change, though. The dumping of over five million pounds (I'm behind times times, the figure today is 21.7 million pounds) of E. Coli-tainted beef last week by Wal-Mart (and others) sickened me so much I can't think of eating cow, or pig, for that matter. All those animals slaughtered and then thrown away. (In case there was some lingering doubt which way my political winds blow...) Now I'm looking at chicken and fish (okay, yes, and yogurt. I'm working on it.) Of course, not everyone in the world has the choices I do. The fish seem to be gone in Nigeria. Thanks to Dr. Scanlan for this link.

Speeding Through the Fog

Friday and I've been descending for a few days into the fog of a fall cold. I'm somewhere deep inside a cave in the middle of a mountain. Hibernation is setting in. Where's that box of Kleenex I saw last spring? Last night I dreamed a home repair man was trying to remove a bear from my backyard, but I chastised him, saying, Are you crazy, that bear belongs there. If you would have looked harder you might have noticed the lion, too. I'm not sure what that's all about, but animals are frequently prominent features in my dreams.

Workshopping is off to a good start. Our group managed to eat and drink (with some smoke) our way through five poem in three hours. Faster than a speeding bullet we have begun. A good time was had by all. The most serious discussion involved future location/time. Some of us want a little more quiet, some of us don't want to give up the beer and snacks. Chris O'Brien has offered a compromise for Bucket nights, come to her house, close to downtown, enjoy the quiet, drink/eat whatever you want to bring, sit around her large kitchen table. It sounds great to me, but let me know what you think. It's also a good deal cheaper, which most of us don't mind. Time is still up in the air. There seems to be no night that suits everyone, so we'll stick with Wednesday for the time being, perhaps move it to every other Wednesday or something like that. Maybe next semester we will have some relief.

If you didn't make it Wednesday, come next Friday and we'll workshop at The Chicory. In case you hadn't noticed, we're making this up as we go. Isn't that what writers do?

Workshop at The Bucket

Yes, the day has finally arrived! We're going to workshop tonight. 7:00. I'm going to get there early and try to reserve a large table inside downstairs. Send away all the butterflies, it's going to be fun.

So you didn't send out a poem or any small piece of writing of any sort (like me). Come . So you didn't write on anyone else's writings because you weren't sure how, or you got busy, or something, never mind. Come. So you're broke. (I'll share my onion rings with you.) Come. So you have to wash your hair tonight. It's not going to help your looks. Come.

Warning. This post has a subtle underlying message. Come.

Snail Vision

I slid down to southern Indiana for a few days. The mosquitoes are still rampant in Michiana (don’t even think of rolling down the window while you’re waiting for the train), but down by McCormick’s Creek they’ve vanished. Everything is dry, dry, dry. No matter where I travel this year, the signs say “fire danger high,” sometimes “very high.”

The water in McCormick’s Creek is still flowing, but it’s shallow. The bigger fish are holed up in scattered deep-ish pools. I wish I knew their names. Next book purchase, a fish field guide. I’ve been reading Pilgrim at Tinker’s Creek for a while now. Like Dillard, I’m in no rush. I want to travel slowly enough to appreciate the fossils embedded in the creek bed, or all those black dots in the water that turn into snails in my hands, or the hawk (which one?) above the glade circling, circling, circling, until whoosh, a plummet, a meal, or the gray antennaed caterpillar crawling up the handrail (who in the heck is he/she going to be?). This must be the middle age craving for second childhood. I want to touch things, but this time with eyes patient enough to see.