April 13, 2004
I'm getting nowhere with revising and creating the poetry for the workshop session on Thursday. My muse is not even a rope; she's a thread -- a worn thread raveling from the edge of my sleeve of care.
Instead, I
-- take my mom out to find a quad-cane that works for her; none of them is the one
-- start trying to root two avocado pits
-- touch up my hair color, which takes some time because I mix two different colors (it's that tinkering thing again)
-- eat some chocolate
-- order a nose aspirator and cheap stethescope for my grandson.
-- check my weblog comments
-- read my son's weblog
-- read my email and follow a link to here
-- finish the fabric book I'm making for my grandson
-- cook up a batch of chicken marsala and freeze some for my next Boston trip
-- leave the new batch of dishes in the sink for later
-- pet my cat
-- blog
-- ponder some more the woman in the Vermeer painting and come up with this:
She wonders what lie to tell him this time.
A husband returned from trade too soon?
A fretful child awake all night with fevered dreams?
What she can’t tell him is the silly truth –
that she’s taken scissors to her hair, again,
snipped away unruly ends, the ones
caught in the clasp of those perfect pearls
that each day lay around her neck like rosary
stones, heavy with penance and regret.
-- realize that I have no idea where to go from there
-- try to figure out how to center the above stanza without the font getting bigger in the process and give up
-- decide instead to call additional attention to this art work of the War President and related discussions
-- check in on my mother, who is crying because of the pain in her spine and because she had a nightmare about some man breaking into her home, hurting people, wrecking things; I rock her in my arms, help her get dressed, give her breakfast and pain pills
-- sit down and have a cup of tea.
UPDATE:
Last night my mother has her violent nightmare. Today, I find out that the house next to my daughter's was broken into and robbed yesterday. And b!X tells about the fire in his neighborhood yesterday that took down a former meth lab. My mom often has dreams that wind up connected to stuff that's going on that there's no way she could know is going on. Just another meaningful coincidence.
ANOTHER UPDATE:
My cousin just called to tell me that his daughter, who is stationed in Iraq and whose unit was packed up and all ready to turn over the transport of supplies and fuel to the civilian Halliburton gang, has had her stay extended. That's what she does there -- coordinate the transport of supplies, often traveling with the convoys.
And, now playing on my tape deck, a line from Tom Robbins while I cook up my favorite (considerably tinkered) homemade granola recipe :
.... hard-luck stories being traded like baseball cards.
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Old Comments (1)
myrln on 13 Apr 2004
Maybe you need to find some volunteer work to take your mind off things;-)) Hah.