There I was, all ready to post my Sunday night writing yesterday morning, and I couldn't get online. Of course I had waited until too close to time to leave for work so I couldn't call Infinity to get help fixing it. As is my wont, I left and hoped that the passage of time would heal it; I'm a big believer in benign neglect. Don tried to get on yesterday--no luck. I tried late last night--nope. I even tried my laptop, for God's sake, which takes for freakin' ever to boot up--nada. So this morning I called tech support (which doesn't scare me because Infinity's tech support is on the east side of GB, not in Pakistan or a suburb of Bombay) and just got a callback from a nice young man named Dennis. All I had to do to fix the DSL was turn off the gray box and reboot it. That's it. Switch off, turn on, et voila! Internet. Bah. This IT tech stuff's a snap. (Oh, man, now I'm going to computer hell for sure for that smartass remark. Maybe I'd better buy an Ipod or something today to make up for it.) Enough of this computer crabbiness, on to Sunday night's writing.
July 6--So it has come to this--Here I sit alone in a pool of yellowish light listening to the raindrops tap on the window over my bed. I'm alone. I didn't mean to be alone at this stage in life. I meant to have someone there, someone on the other side of the bed, someone whose warmth would warm me on cold winter nights, whose arms would comfort me when the lightning and thunder are too close. At times someone was there that I thought might fill the bill, might want to spend his life with me, but I was always wrong. Evidently I'm not a very good judge of people, so I'm giving up. I've bought an electric blanket for cold winter nights and a white noise generator so I won't hear storms. My life is full. Why complicate it with love?
And from last night...
July 7--It was his idea of a good time--Who else but a guy would think something so boring and pointless is the height of fun? What could he possibly see in it? I mean, really. Sitting on hard splintery wood seats on the edge of a dusty field baking in the sun, drinking beer, and yelling obscenities. Oh yes, what girl could resist an invitation to spend a day like that? I can, that's for damned sure. Although I could maybe be talked into an afternoon of shoe shopping.
I'm not saying any of this is "great literature" most of it is barely drivel, but I'm excited to be putting out even these few words every night.
Great image in your piece, Bob. I felt like I was right there with you. See you in a few minutes, yard man.
--Barbara
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sticky Monday
"Even the ticket agent looked shopworn." I like this phrase a lot, Barbara, especially the way it flows off the previous sentence. Such feelings of loss and exhaustion... So here is the last time I cried.
Five women sit in chairs, waiting. Ceiling lights are off, just three lamps around the perimeter send light into this twilight room. The women are waiting for me to find a poem to read them. I am paging through a collection of Emily Dickinson, searching for something short, with not too many hard words. I ask if they remember Emily Dickinson. Some have memories yet from high school. I find a poem and begin reading. The women listen. This is the fourth or fifth poem of hers that I've read this afternoon, and I imagine that they may be getting used to the syntax. I know they appreciate the rhymes. I read: This is my letter to the world - That never wrote to me. So far, I'm doing fine. My voice is clear and my enunciation strong. But Emily has other plans. By the second line from the end, I have to stop and sigh, and my voice trembles. I make it through to the end, but I cannot continue. I have to tell them that I have to read some other poems, that these are making me cry.
Alright, I didn't start bawling, but I was right there at the edge.
Bob ;-)
Five women sit in chairs, waiting. Ceiling lights are off, just three lamps around the perimeter send light into this twilight room. The women are waiting for me to find a poem to read them. I am paging through a collection of Emily Dickinson, searching for something short, with not too many hard words. I ask if they remember Emily Dickinson. Some have memories yet from high school. I find a poem and begin reading. The women listen. This is the fourth or fifth poem of hers that I've read this afternoon, and I imagine that they may be getting used to the syntax. I know they appreciate the rhymes. I read: This is my letter to the world - That never wrote to me. So far, I'm doing fine. My voice is clear and my enunciation strong. But Emily has other plans. By the second line from the end, I have to stop and sigh, and my voice trembles. I make it through to the end, but I cannot continue. I have to tell them that I have to read some other poems, that these are making me cry.
Alright, I didn't start bawling, but I was right there at the edge.
Bob ;-)
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Lazy Sunday--I Hope
My plan for today is to not do stuff, because I have spent the last two days zipping through errands and chores--and I'm tired. I want a day off, a real day off. Although I know that I won't be able to resist doing a few things. But I'm going to try!
Nice drivel, Bob. Here's my latest:
July 5--Write about a time you cried--Tears flowed unchecked as Kay watched the small plane taxi away from the gate. Hot wind blew across the tarmac carrying the kerosene scent of aviation gas along with the clean smell of the sea right across the road. Kay watched as the yellowed white of the plane moved down the runway, the whine of the engines rising to an almost unbearable level as the front wheel lifted and it looked like it was trying to sit on its tail. The plane looked old and seemed poorly maintained, shabby, she thought. Even the ticket agent looked shopworn. What possessed Pat to fly with Windward Islands Air, an airline no one had ever heard of?
Not bad, but cut short because I was so sleepy.
Enjoy the sunny day!
--Barbara
Nice drivel, Bob. Here's my latest:
July 5--Write about a time you cried--Tears flowed unchecked as Kay watched the small plane taxi away from the gate. Hot wind blew across the tarmac carrying the kerosene scent of aviation gas along with the clean smell of the sea right across the road. Kay watched as the yellowed white of the plane moved down the runway, the whine of the engines rising to an almost unbearable level as the front wheel lifted and it looked like it was trying to sit on its tail. The plane looked old and seemed poorly maintained, shabby, she thought. Even the ticket agent looked shopworn. What possessed Pat to fly with Windward Islands Air, an airline no one had ever heard of?
Not bad, but cut short because I was so sleepy.
Enjoy the sunny day!
--Barbara
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Here You Go...
Okay, Barbara. Here's some drivel I came up with about the morning after the 4th of July: In my neighborhood, black and white and tan plastic bags are piled at curbside. They've been out there two days now, baking in the sun's relentless heat. Trucks with over-slung back-ends move along the streets, stopping at the piles of bags and rubber garbage cans. Tanned men that travel with the truck wear bright yellow plastic tops over their shirts and orange gloves on their hands. They throw the bags in the back of the truck, tip the garbage cans in, then move on to the next house. Empty boxes that bottle rockets came in litter the lawns they pass. Sidewalks are marked with black where the rockets and roman candles were shot off. The faint tang of rotten eggs hangs in the air. And when the garbage truck comes around the corner again, there is that added aroma of decay, faintly sweet and bitter.
I'll try again Monday.
Bob ;-)
I'll try again Monday.
Bob ;-)
Sweater Back Finis!
See? I said yesterday how much I enjoy making raglan sleeve openings because of the whole decreasing thing and here's proof. Yesterday afternoon after weeding, then cleaning up and going to Walmart, I sat on the couch and knit and dozed and knit, and by the time it was suppertime I had a sweater back. With breaks to make deviled eggs, coleslaw, and Jell-o with fruit in it for our picnic supper, of course. Pretty cool, huh? And the tab of even knitting at the top matches the tab of even knitting at the top of the sleeves. D'you think they planned that?
We went to the farmer's market this morning and got fresh mozz, round zucchini & baby patty pan squash, tomatoes, some small-ish onions we're going to put on the grill with the zucchini and country pork ribs tonight, beets to roast, kohlrabi (because we wanted something different; we still haven't figured out what we'll do with them, but I'm on it as soon as I post this) and of course 3 Crab Rangoons for $2 for breakfast. Mmm, fresh veggies are the best--and even better bought from the people who grow them.
Post #500!
Hope everyone enjoyed their 4th. I weeded, ate my 3 blueberries, went to WalMart, made coleslaw, deviled eggs and Jello with fruit in, and we had a traditional Fourth of July picnic-type supper with brats on the grill. Just the two of us. It was a blast. And I finished the back of the sweater I want to wear to The Clearing in Sept., so the whole day was a triumph.
July 4--Write about a voice--That voice is a lot of why I fell in love with him. It flows through your veins like warm honey, sweet and soothing. I hear his voice and I smile, and any knots in my muscles relax. I can be irritated with him, frustrated by something he's done or not done, and still when I hear his voice on the phone I'm glad. Sappy, I know, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
Anybody else writing? Even a little? Hey, Bob, do you want me to lend you a prompt book too? I could bring a couple for you to choose from next Thursday if you'd like.
--Barbara
July 4--Write about a voice--That voice is a lot of why I fell in love with him. It flows through your veins like warm honey, sweet and soothing. I hear his voice and I smile, and any knots in my muscles relax. I can be irritated with him, frustrated by something he's done or not done, and still when I hear his voice on the phone I'm glad. Sappy, I know, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
Anybody else writing? Even a little? Hey, Bob, do you want me to lend you a prompt book too? I could bring a couple for you to choose from next Thursday if you'd like.
--Barbara
Friday, July 4, 2008
Happy 4th of July!
Crash! Boom! *sparkle, sparkle, sparkle* Oooooh. Aaaaah. (That's my fireworks impression. Sorry I can't blog the interpretive dance that goes with it.)
I've decided that the only type of sweater sleeve I ever want to knit is raglan. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you. Because once you hit the armpits (yay, armpits!) you start the decreases every other row and the knitting just zooms along. Look. See? I've decreased enough that I can skrunch the stitches onto straights instead of wrestling the weight of it on circs. and I'm just zipping through the rows. Ah, raglan is a beautiful word.
This morning when DH went out to survey the crops he noticed this:
It's my first ripe blueberry! Woohoo! It pays to buy bushes with berries already on them. (Who's got the berries now, nursery guy? Huh? Me, that's who. Neener, neener, neener.) There are three ripe berries on the other bush but they're kind of hidden by leaves, plus this one's the biggie. Mmm, pretty soon I won't be able to resist and I'll pick it and eat it. Fresh homegrown blueberries. I haven't had those since Auntie Cele died and Uncle Len sold the farm.
Enjoy your 4th. If you need me, I'll be out weeding in the asparagus patch in my big sun hat with a big pitcher of lemonade on the patio table for breaks.
I've decided that the only type of sweater sleeve I ever want to knit is raglan. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you. Because once you hit the armpits (yay, armpits!) you start the decreases every other row and the knitting just zooms along. Look. See? I've decreased enough that I can skrunch the stitches onto straights instead of wrestling the weight of it on circs. and I'm just zipping through the rows. Ah, raglan is a beautiful word.
This morning when DH went out to survey the crops he noticed this:
It's my first ripe blueberry! Woohoo! It pays to buy bushes with berries already on them. (Who's got the berries now, nursery guy? Huh? Me, that's who. Neener, neener, neener.) There are three ripe berries on the other bush but they're kind of hidden by leaves, plus this one's the biggie. Mmm, pretty soon I won't be able to resist and I'll pick it and eat it. Fresh homegrown blueberries. I haven't had those since Auntie Cele died and Uncle Len sold the farm.
Enjoy your 4th. If you need me, I'll be out weeding in the asparagus patch in my big sun hat with a big pitcher of lemonade on the patio table for breaks.
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