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My daughter is getting married this June in Yosemite. I got the word this weekend that it was time to make my fight arrangements. I had already booked the cabin so all I needed was the flight and car rental. But it has been a while since I have had to fly anywhere, so I was left staring into the computer today comparing flight information and wondering about baggage rules. I had everything together when I realized I needed to confirm my arrival and departure times with my daughter. I left her a phone message. I hope she responds soon.
My son approached me today asking me to please explain to him what quantum physics was. The thing was that he was actually serious. He wanted me to clear the matter up for him in say, less than 30 minutes or so. This is not a seven-year-old either. This particular boy is 26. He had been watching something on the history channel that piqued his interest. I did what I could, starting out with Newton and walking him through states of matter, but the main thrust was that no one really understood quantum physics, even those who are paid to.
I got my letter from Blue Cross today. Dear Victim. All your personal data has been stolen from us. Why we collected your social security number in the first place is an embarrassing question that we'd really rather not go into. Please be aware that you will probably soon be the victim of identity theft and will be subject to certain financial ruin. To make this up to you we are 1. sending you a letter and 2. providing some kind of obscure identity security for two years and we are sure this will compensate you for any potential inconvenience.
I finally did it. I made the flight and car rental reservations for my daughter's wedding. I have my cabin reservation made as well. She has decided to have her wedding in Yosemite National Park. This is not such a surprise because she is a nature girl, travelling everywhere with her two dogs and earning her PhD in Zoology. She is working a government grant doing wildlife management. Yes I am so proud. The problem is that I have this nagging sense that there is something I have forgotten to do for the reservations. I cannot remember what it was.
It must occur to people, to anybody and everybody how weird it is to live in these wet, fleshy, meaty and bony bodies and have a consciousness so we are aware we exist. We can feel our toes, wiggle our nose and type out stuff on a computer. For Christ's sake we can make computers! And all the time we are looking out of this body through two eyes. We have senses, five of them. We interpret light waves and audio signals. And we are fragile, so very fragile and transient. And we get to be aware of that too.
It is clean-out time. Shovel out the mind. Actually, I might be ok. I can't always tell. Do I have things to shovel out? I am not happy and sound in my own mind. I don't know if writing about it helps or not.
It is dark outside. I am thinking, what is all this worth? You are just going to die anyway. It is a waste of time is it not? It is no more a waste of time than anything else.
Is there anything else? No, not especially. I will spell-check, re-write and then delete the document .
I mopped the kitchen floor today. Most of the damage to the kitchen floor is from coffee stains. Apparently if I did not drink coffee I would not need to mop the floor as often. It is interesting to me that I mop the kitchen floor, but do not dust the shelves. I think this is because I know how to mop the kitchen floor. I do not know how to dust. I have a competency and it is pleasurable to do a thing at which you have a certain competency. Obviously I need more practice at dusting the shelves.
I gave your shoes away. I'm sure you won't be back for them, and I realize that is my fault. I know I didn't explain much and you wanted explanation. The fact is that I had no really suitable explanation other than the fact that you were wrong. We were wrong. It was not going to work out. I understood that in my bones. And I saw no sense in trying to discuss it because I knew that you would not accept it, would not accept anything I had to offer. Ending it was the only way to end it.
Soon it will be time to go out for a walk. Going out for a walk is a new thing this week. The weather has finally loosened its strangle-hold on the state enough for walking outside. There are still thick patches of ice and water everywhere trying to find its way to the lake. I am learning to integrate the Fitbit with walking outdoors. I had the treadmill down. Ten minutes is 1,000 steps. Outside is different. This walk is 2,000 steps. Another route is 3500 steps. By the end of the month I will have it all sorted out.
My car is telling me it wants to go in for an oil change. While it's very insistent with its message, it's also not completely sure of itself. It says the "oil life" is at 15%, which to me means I have another 1500 miles to go. My car surprised me when I first read that it went 10,000 miles between oil changes. Actually it goes farther, because it is at 10,000 miles that it starts whispering about that 15% thing, which means the real number is closer to 12,000 miles. Cars used to ask for oil every 3,000 miles.
Yes my leg aches and I may not make ten thousand steps today and I'm thinking I may need my second Ativan about now because, oh hell I don't know, because a feeling is rising in me and it a madman shaking his fist and shouting. I think he is angry about something. And I am thinking how I got to edit stuff and what all this would look like if nobody took out the stuff that they wrote that was honest but it was just not politically correct or it was just plain fucked up in some obvious way.
Can you see the sun sparks
into the throat of darkness
that swallows hard
swinging its head for greater gulps?
that splash against our hearts
like hardened petals dashed
against the wall,
wind chimes against my brain,
tinkering, touched, fingers dipped and licked,
taken by this dense delight.
Sweet apples in the fall:
the grass is browning and
it seemed my toes were
oozing through cold mud.
I could feel the rough bark
of the tree as I climbed her and
the warmth of her web as she cradled me
and I tasted her moist fruit.
I dreamt last night,
of a tiny frog caught
between here and there
although I could not tell exactly
It must have been a
a dream of sweet anticipation
where we are caught between
the patches of snow and the
brown and green.
Or it was a dream of
cutting through the
a small rivulet
over hill and away.
Still I am uncertain about
the here and there even
though we all seem to be
in the same place,
caught in a moment between
the patches of snow and the
brown and green.
Well it was your idea
the body was it tightly bound?
The breasts pressed
close to you
nipples peering flat through the clear
tight plastic clingy
and it has crossed one leg over another
straining over your hip
and even now there are places
where the moisture is beginning
And i turn you over
there your face to tease
oh yes you must breathe
i am hearing the pop as
i poke a hole
into your mouth and hear the air rushing
into the gasp
of your voice
this is the place to kiss
Situations change, but the Fovet stays forever. The Fovet is ceaseless. There is a reason for this. The Fovet is clean. The Fovet is pure The Fovet is an idea and even if it is forgotten for a millennium or two someone will always come up with it again. The Fovet will live. All lives in all universes would have to be wiped out forever to eliminate the Fovet. And it would have to be a retroactive erasure because the Fovet will have always once existed even if all life in all universes is erased for the rest of time.
They can't bear it when Susan gets these boxes. It's just too exciting. She gets worked up. She has a nose for the mailman like a dog's and knows when he's a block away. We all know that too much excitement is bad for Susan. When she hears the delivery truck screech to a halt on the street she doesn't know which way to turn. She runs in tight little circles and pees on the floor. Twice in the past week she has banged her head on the door because she was in such a rush to get it open.
The Motie's appearance is quite terrifying at first sight, but when properly domesticated it can be a useful pet. It is a brown and grey furry creature with long claws on its feet and horrible fangs. It's eyes are bright red. The proper domestication requires a reward system where the Motie is fed gum drops and patted on the head for appropriate behavior. Negative approaches will turn your Motie into an unmanageable beast. Once properly trained the Motie will do dishes, take out the trash, mow the lawn, shovel snow, vacuum, and wash your windows. It can even serve drinks.
You remark that both sets of your pliers are in the kitchen drawer. If you know how many pairs you have and where they are, it is a sign you don't have children. There are many pairs of pliers in my house. I really cannot count them all. Children make off with tools. I made off with my father's tools, leaving them in the yard to rust in the rain. I left his screwdrivers in the driveway to ruin his tires. And my children are no different. I buy replacement tools and they too fall into strange and dangerous places.
I took my car in for routine maintenance today. My car has a rear wiper. I am not sure why, but it does. We got along for years without rear wipers on cars, but now, some cars simply must have them. My rear wiper doesn't work. Do I care? Not really. But I paid for this stupid extended warranty and I have never used it...until now. Ok, it might have been the deck-mounted bicycle rack that did in the wiper, but damn, they control is so difficult and poorly marked. It is really their fault, a case of bad design.
I just finished another half hour of cleaning the refrigerator. My first half hour yesterday went into cleaning the freezer compartment. It is surprising how long it takes to clean a refrigerator. I may have two hours in by the time I am done. I went down to get the mail and pitched it all in the recycle bin which was at the bottom of the drive with the curb cart. They were both empty, having been picked up so I brought them back to the house. Everything seems a little muddy out there, a little too quiet for me.
is a nearly physical assault
with edges clean as a newly split
piece of oak cordwood,
amber crystals still sparkling in the grain.
Perhaps when I split that piece
a long red splinter flew off
sinking itself deep in me.
What we know is an endless forest
of long oak logs
waiting to be brought down
as they slowly stir this
One by one they fall with a slight gasp and a rush of branches bouncing off the sandy soil. After the smash and starry spray there is a quiet that gathers itself and creeps away.
It is almost the end And it seems that endings come quickly. I can hear the murmur of your feet against the kitchen floor Feel the concussion as you close various doors and the sun is pouring through the pines outside. I think they are playing basketball in the park. Out there will be the hammer of the ball against the asphalt. The slap against the backboard and the ring of the rim. I can hear the touch of your shoes against the kitchen floor and the clatter as you move plates. It seems I should be helping in there.
A brass fan lies spread like a fallen peacock across the fireplace screen. The word, "redundant" comes to mind. I am more or less understanding the reason for the screen and the reason for the heat exchanger? Is that the word for this decorative object? For it is a decorative object. You have put it there because You thought it pretty and it may have been in a display with a fireplace so you thought it should go there. It could go anywhere. It could go into the softness of this chair like my shoulders received a gift unto me.
The water lies flat out across the world liquid lips lapping against the shallow breath of the sky. Clouds hustle in bunching up at the door. Someone closes it from the outside. You hear the latch go click as the lockset drives the bolt home. I put the pillow behind my head and take it away again. My body is confused about whether it wants to sleep or not. This will get sorted out as I float out on the shallow sea watching for the drop off that never comes. Between my toes I watch clouds stumble over one another.
I play reckless games with words and files copying one over the other. It doesn't seem to be as important as it once did. Did I mention that my body is confused about the sleep thing? I should not be drinking coffee so late in the day. I close my eyes and I am moving. I bounce and those clouds move up and down between my toes. My legs are long and thin and the clouds are lined up like targets in a gun sight. If I am careful I can trace their outlines with my toes as I bob.
I play reckless games with words and files copying one over the other. There are endless variations of things that seem to be similar. They only seem that way. Did I mention that my body is confused about the sleep thing? I should not be trying to have sex so late in the day. I close my eyes and I am moving. I bounce and those clouds move up and down between my toes angled like old fashioned gun sights Daisy air rifle style. Is it really a Daisy? Is it a real BB gun or just a pop gun?
I play reckless games with words and files copying one over the other. I should be more careful somehow. There are endless variations of things that seem to be similar. They only seem that way. Did I mention that my body is confused about the sleep thing? I should not be trying to nap so late in the day. I close my eyes and I am moving. I bounce and those clouds are lined up between and above my feet. With care, I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach.
I play reckless games with words and files copying them over one another. I should be more careful somehow because it seems to be important to save every nuance. There are endless variations of things that seem to be. They only seem that way. I am only outlining experiments, perhaps one experiment. I call it an experiment because that way I can be whimsical. I am moving. I bounce and those clouds are lined up between and above my feet. With care, I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach.
Ok, I won't dignify this by calling it an experiment. It is merely whimsy. I try to be careful to be absolutely meaningless to write the piece that goes absolutely nowhere, because no matter what you write there is someone who will pick it up and read meaning into it. I am moving. I am water. I bounce and those clouds are lined up between and above my feet. With care, I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach, tracing their rooflines. Oh look! I can blot out the sun!
I am careful here to be absolutely meaningless, to write the prize that goes behind the glassy swallowing beacons of imagination's flight. No matter what you write there is someone who will pick it up and wrestle it to the ground and read meaning into it. I am moving. I am water. I am Mother Earth. I bounce and those clouds are lined up between and above my feet. With care, I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach, tracing their rooflines. Oh look! I can blot out the sun!
I write the prize that goes behind the glassy swallowing beacons of imaginary flight. Whatever you write can be picked up, wrestled to the ground and found to have meaning. I am moving. I am water. I am Mother Earth. I am her liquid lover staging behind the door with naked thighs, naked feet. I will stay there until the maids are gone. Those clouds are lined up between my feet. I can trace the horizon with the tips of my toes. I can outline hotels on the beach, tracing their rooflines. Oh look! I can blot out the sun!
The Tip Jar