Our Marriage Distilled

This morning, D., picked up a book I'd checked out entitled Spontaneous Human Combustion (I'd been weeding the 001.9s). He gave me a look.

D.: "Really?"

Me: *defensive* "Yes. It's a scientific study."

D.:   *longer look, raised eyebrows*

Me: "What? Don't you believe in spontaneous human combustion?"

D.:  "No."

Me: "Well, do you believe in anything you can't explain?"

D.:   "Yes." pause "I believe in you."

Bees and a Bat

The day began with a bat, loose in the library. Not something we could post on our Facebook page, of course, as there may be some patrons who would find it disturbing, this confluence of nature and their safe space.

But the bat (we called it "Stellaluna," of course) was foolish enough to land on the floor in the office of the supervising children's librarian. She has children librarian's skills, and more importantly, a butterfly net with which to catch the creature. She let it go in the courtyard, moving it to near a tree when it didn't take off immediately. It may have been stunned, or sick, or just overwhelmed by its adventure and the amount of daylight around it. By afternoon, when some colleagues checked on it, it appeared to be gone, although they did not brave a thorough search of the ivy in the courtyard, because there are worse things than bats to be found there.

In the afternoon, I had messages from Christine, friend and seasoned beekeeper extraordinaire, that my hive had swarmed into my next-door neighbor's yard. She and John (another experienced beeker and swarm-catcher) caught the swarm, which was a little cranky in the cold damp weather, and are giving it to another Sonoma County beekeeper who is currently hiveless. I wish I'd been home to help! I knew it was coming because of the piping from last inspection. I shall post photos and maybe even videos soon.

Change versus novelty

I'd like to think I'm okay with change. I don't mind trying new things (by which I mean Thai food, not sky-diving). I don't mind changing jobs. I believe I'd be happy to move to a new house, if/when that happens. I understand that nothing is permanent.

But I have to say that I have lost some tolerance for society's constant push for novelty. It's even possible that I never had that tolerance to begin with, or perhaps simply that I don't feel that I have the energy to be responsible for the decisions that go behind innovation.

Actually, I think I can tighten the focus and say this more clearly. I don't seem to be able to get excited about making decisions that may disappoint other people. My skin has grown thin in that area. I second-guess myself and I don't want to be responsible. For much of anything that is designed to delight people. Or maybe I just don't have a lot of surplus creative energy. Or general energy. Today. I used to be in charge of a lot of stuff. I mostly hated it, but it helped to know where I stood in the chain of command. And I think seniority helped. I had the certainty that history can give you. I'm feeling less invested these days in anything to do with work. Even though I love my job.

This could be low blood sugar or the cold I'm fighting off speaking. But even in writing this, I realize that I'm stymied by the needs that drive a capital society. It's just as well I don't work in retail. My clock is slower than that. I don't think about the next thing and then the next thing. I'd like to sit and be still in the present a bit longer, if possible. Give me a job to do. Don't ask for my opinion about what to do. Or, at least, not tonight.

A Safe and Tame Poem-a-Day

In honor of the afore-mentioned and omni-April'd National Poetry Month, the Santa Rosa Central Branch of the Sonoma County Library will post a new poem every day for the next 28 days on their Facebook page.

To err on the side of no-copyright-infringement, the poems have been, thus far, culled from those in public domain. This means primarily white men, all dead poets, and a lot of rhyme and elevated language. We are avoiding anything that is overtly religious or edgy. The results have the potential of being bland. Although sometimes I like me some Edna St. Vincent Millay, I'd rather have Sara Teasdale.

I love that while I wrote the above, I paused to look up "Sara Teasdale vs Edna St. Vincent Millay," and was led to Cynthia Haven's blog, and this entry. What's wonderful about Haven's notes, to me at least, is that she quotes Richard Wilbur, another one of my favorite poets, and one whom I would think could provide me with several inoffensive but well-written poems for our FB entries.

But I hadn't remembered Elinor Wylie, whom I think is better than Teasdale, based on this:

Poor Earth
It is not heaven: bitter seed
Leavens its entrails with despair
It is a star where dragons breed:
Devils have a footing there.
The sky has bent it out of shape;
The sun has strapped it to his wheel;
Its course is crooked to escape
Traps and gins of stone and steel.
It balances on air, and spins
Snared by strong transparent space;
I forgive it all its sins;
I kiss the scars upon its face.

 Sara Teasdale:  1884-1933
 Elinor Wylie:   1885-1928
 Edna St. Vincent Millay:  1892-1950

Not National Tattoo Day

 

Let's say it's July 17th, which is National Tattoo Day. It is not, by any calendar, really July 17th. But the power of the written word is that it can engage the imagination in a little stroll down What If Lane.

If I had a tattoo, or multiple tattoos, as my daughters do (does anyone ever stick to just a single tattoo?), and if it were July 17th, I could conceivably have conversations with people about the subject as though it were something remarkable.

And yet, on July 18th, I would still have tattoos. And it would be National Sour Candy Day. Ignoring for a moment the significant overlap that exists in a tattoos/sour candy Venn diagram entitled "What My Daughters Like," the reality is that the hubbub over tattoos would wane.

My point? It is National Poetry Month. But in March, I was a poet interested in poetry, and willing to travel to Portland to hang out with 14,999 other writers at AWP for five days to back the statement. In May, I will still be a poet.

April serves to prod me to blog and make statements about poetry. But the various self-help books and audiobooks I've been reading also prompt me to put my actions where my aspirations are. Instead of putting things off or whining about life not meeting my - often subconscious - expectations, I am acting. A little or a lot, depending on the day. But, as self-helpy as this sounds, it's true: only by stopping the behavior that that is keeping me from achieving goals, and by taking the steps that will get me ever closer to what I want, will I find myself with, if not the actual goals themselves, then at least with the self-respect that comes from working toward them honestly and doggedly. End of self-helpy spiel.

                                         

Back in the Shed

I've been writing daily since St. David's Day, and I will likely put up some posts to prove it. The only exception was yesterday,  a day where the flu laid me out and had me sleeping on the red ("sleeping") couch for hour after hour. After hour.

But as the title of this post suggests, I am back in the shed. This is to say that I am back to spending time in my shed in which to write. It's still cold, but not as cold as it has been. This last winter, we've had no heat in the house apart from costly space heaters, strategically placed and used as sparingly as we could bear, which meant waking to 56 degrees in the hallway many mornings. So I suppose a chilly writer's shed, even in the rain (like now) is better than that.

Besides which, between the audiobooks and physical books I've been reading of late and the knowledge that in a few weeks I'll be on my way to AWP, I am compelled to (re-re-re, always re-) think of myself as a writer. Who, you know, writes.  

Dream of doing something meaningful in the scheme of things. Act accordingly.