Hello once more to passers-by/followers. I have a new poem up, The Solitary Dialect of the Night Owl, at my Blogger Blog; do stop by. And if you haven’t read my esoteric The Love Song of the Coney Island Mermaid, posted there below the current effort, which several of my new friends from around the world and across the Pond I’ve met at One Stop Poetry, do have at it. I’m thrilled w/ the feedback.
Last night I had one of my spells. I sped down the back road in utter darkness except for my own headlights trying to pierce the fog to the super WalMart again.
Ever since I overcame my agoraphobia in the wake of my leg fracturing, the bones not growing and then growing into a question mark and how I haul it through life in a walker, and found out that the store has three new super carts, I can’t stay out of the place.
The super carts are state of the art with leg room and cute little digital controls and little horns that honk like trash trucks backing up when you accidentally put the thing in reverse and crash into a freezer case of pies.
Last night I whizzed down a newly polish and wide straightaway to electronics and actually drooled over the 7″ Acer mini netbook, although I thought perhaps the keys were too close together–if you type fast and hard with swollen fingers, this is not the gadget for you. Then I marveled at the Big Screen TV’s, the fact that you can buy a prepaid wireless net thumb chip and pop it into your laptop out in the middle of…somewhere. Somewhere within reception of whatever phone tower the thing is looped through.
We live in an electrifying world. Electrons everywhere, people’s phone calls passing through our very bodies. Right now my heart, dutifully thumping away, is broadcasting someone’s phone sex out into the void. Wow. I guess some is better than none at all….
I had just picked up an honest to god antique– a little blank book with a sweet fabric cover to carry in the car when something demands that I pull over and write it down and I am thus ever ambivalent about all of the gadgetry, including the i-pad and its clones. These days for some reason lines of nonsense are pouring out of me like effluvia during an outbreak of the bird flu. A year ago I thought I’d lost my song. I think I have a long way to go to get as good as I need to be now to compete with all the other songbirds in their stunning raiment and ability to go straight up into the stratosphere with a mind-blowing set of stanzas, but perhaps I’m getting there.
I was going to post a different essay that came all of a piece the other day but I’m thinking it might be time to send yet another essay out into the void and see if someone trolling for prose might like it. It’s been great to have the lyric essay come out in the Oil and Water Anthology– click on the cover shot on the right of the blog– we are guest-blogging about our pieces. Sorry I am suffering from a dearth of live/hot links here, not to mention synonyms for personal essay.
Hot links used to be what you fixed in a rusty cast iron pan for breakfast. But you have to keep your hot links at your finger tips so that you can drive a Porsche of a computer and get to one amazing blog after another to read the vast amount of honest to god literature being written by every day people.
Today Dawn Potter (and other wonderful writers) commented on my poem and said she liked a stanza. Thank you, Dawn. If you haven’t read Dawn’s work, do. She is brilliant and elegant and blogs here.
I’m looking forward to figuring out how to put a reading of my work on my blog like others are and especially with the poems I’ve written in the past few days.
All of this was on my mind as I cruised through WalMart electronics at 1 p.m. dodging weary people wielding box cutters, some of them, like I was, chewing a little Vicodin to keep working/functioning. Don’t worry: it doesn’t scare me to tell you that; I’ve made my peace with the need for pain relief. The graveyard community of folks in WalMart looks like a felony line-up– tough, diligent people doing what they need to do to keep going (unlike felons– it’s just that they look like they won’t and don’t take any shit).
Finally, I bought a new mousepad (in a time warp people might wonder why mice need protection at all– I know, stupid joke) and a 50 ft wire for the modem out at the house where I intend to go in a few minutes to decompress, sing along to Joan Sutherland and make a turkey shepherd’s pie. I heard a recipe on The Splendid Table but I don’t know if I’ll get it right; I don’t have shallots. I have an ordinary onion and I will be standing among dented ordinary things, not the luminous Calphalon I wanted to take home last night, a box of delciously new and sturdy pots and pans about to fall off the shelf and give me a concussion.
Hemmorhaging imagery I drove and drove, whizzing up and down the aisles, putting my knit cap back on around the freezer cases, musing over the cajun sausage, reverting to Jimmy Dean, finally grabbing the things for a sausage-green-chile-cheese quiche this weekend, after we finish the shepherd’s pie and the bread pudding and ….
I thought I was done cooking like this, for my compadre and our surrogate kids– the two Jack Russells, two Goldens and tidal wave of cats, but when I’m alone at my apartment trying to live my independent life and writing and writing I always feel like I have to be very together, very competent, not miss a lick in the balancing act of ten open documnents on the pc, another pot of coffee quickly vacuum up the dog hair clumped just under the bed, jump/hobble into the shower, not miss a step, as it were, sliding from the raised toilet seat out of my clothes to the bath bench to briefly stand not fall to get the best parts of me clean, then the rest and swing those old lady legs back out, over the bench, over the toilet seat to Grandmother’s house… and wait– I got derailed.
I just feel like I can relax out there, and that I don’t have to perform for awhile, or stay so damn organized. And I’m not really on anything except sleep deprivation and the fact that a few people stopped by the other blog and said I’d written a good poem. Robert Bly once told me that writing one good poem in a lifetime is a huge accomplishment. Believe it. He turned 84 last week, Garrison mentioned one fine morning.
Poets on She Writes is almost up to 200 and that will be something! I’ll put up a celebratory challenge.
Getting lost in the sanitary napkins at 3 am is somehow comforting, even more comforting to have bought the ones I like to wear as insurance against I know not what, at 62, as will be stumping out into mind numbing cold to the truck with my loot, coming in with Tess to a warm house. Happy New Year once again— power to the heart and to your Muse.
What did the menopausal sow say to Santa Clause?
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teats.”
Yes. I made that up. I confess.