Wednesday, February 23, 2011

each one of them

Half-dead poinsettias from five Christmases ago -- gone. Undergraduate textbooks, hopelessly out of date, for courses neither of us had any memory of having taken nor being interested in -- gone. Stretched, torn, faded cotton sweaters in insipid colors and unlikely sizes -- gone. Dead pens, old wall calendars, empty mayonnaise and baby food jars, baby teeth, report cards, letters from the gas company, metal dry cleaning hangers, empty shoe boxes, boots with broken laces, single earrings, inflatable globes, Young Scientist microscope sets -- all gone.



reading
who knew there was an instruction manual?

weather
March approaches, which may or may not be a good thing

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

listen / present

Within the shadows of the gap are all the unused words from the dictionary, the Chinese fortune cookies never cracked and read, the books remaindered and pulped without ever being shipped from the warehouse, the minutes and hours and days of film footage left on the cutting room floor, to be swept up by a sleepy janitor and thrown into the dumpster at the end of the day.



(re)reading
Casanova in Bolzano / Sándor Márai

weather
waxing gibbous

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

red

The fox twitched. It had been days now since the last real meal, a too-young malnourished rabbit, and there was nothing in sight that promised a certain future, a breakfast or a lunch or a dinner or a midnight snack. The last remaining chicken coop had been closed down over a year ago, the farmer moved into the city to take a job in sales, and the house sold to a relatively clueless couple who thought about keeping chickens while deciding to wait until the longer warmer days promised by the Farmer's Almanac for later in the season before ordering day old chicks for the coop. The fox knew how to break into the coop under any weather and without any light, but all it could do was watch, and wait, and grow thinner and weaker.



reading
I've reached the stage where it's become difficult to refuse to read novels by first time authors who are younger than I am, which is all in all an awkward moment of staring mortality straight in the eye

weather
apparently some 40% of residential roads in neighboring cities haven't been ploughed once in this winter-of-snow, due to budget crises. How do the worthy workers manage?

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

in case of emergency


This is a picture of summer.

There's lots of winter. Far too much winter. Winter such that summer might consider returning again far too much effort. While the groundhog disagrees, he's a hibernating rodent, so ignore him.

We're staying in. Drink hot toddies. Hot chocolate. Scotch.

The pen doodles in circles and the snowbanks rise ever higher.