He Is Risen! Happy Yeaster!
Yeaster 2010
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Poetic Addendum
I hardly ever understand the poetry in the New Yorker. I like the articles, even though some of them have way too many words. I love the fiction – I even listen to a podcast of the stories read by other authors on my Ipod when I ride my bike. Pretty dorky, huh? Some of the pictures are great, and the cartoons are cool, but the poetry always leaves me feeling like it is over my head. Most of the time, I just don’t get it. Being a glutton for punishment, I read every single verse, sometimes two or three times, before I sniff and pronounce it poorly written, and mumble something about how I don’t have time to sit around reading a bunch of meaningless, self-indulgent drivel. My motto is: “If I don’t understand it, it’s wicked retarded.”
However, after I wrote the last post, I read a poem that I like a lot, and that I think sums up those days when the underlying thrill of being makes it impossible to dwell on the negative, even if it is undeniable or inevitable, and, how just as one can get overwhelmed by minutiae, it’s also the little things that lead us to feeling free, aware, a part of the universal hum, a part of something wonderful and amazing. Want to read it? OK, go ahead! Even though I am pretty sure I am going to the Big House for copyright infringement, I have reprinted it for you here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine in the pokey, on account of I’m real gangsta. You’re welcome.
Preachers Warn
By Charles Simic
This peaceful world of ours is ready for destruction –
And still the sun shines, the sparrows come
Each morning to the bakery for crumbs
Next door, two men deliver a bed for newlyweds
And stop to admire a bicycle chained to a parking meter.
Its owner is making lunch for his ailing grandmother.
He heats the soup and serves it to her in a bowl.
The windows are open, there’s a warm breeze.
The young trees are delirious to have leaves.
Italian opera is on the radio, the volume too high
Brevi et triste giorni visse, a baritone sings.
Everyone up and down the block can hear him.
Something about the days that remain for us to enjoy
Being few and sad. Not today, Maestro Verdi!
At the hairdresser’s a girl leaps out of a chair,
Her blond hair bouncing off her bare shoulders
As she runs out the door in her high heels.
“I must be off,” says the handsome boy to his grandmother.
His bicycle is where he left it. He rides casually through the heavy traffic
His white shirttails fluttering behind him
Long after everyone else has come to a sudden stop.
You can find it in the March 1, 2010 edition ( I’m a slow reader!) of the New Yorker, that has this great cover by Brian Stauffer:
Also, as a special, additional bonus, I thought that I would include one of my mom’s poems about the juicy Rainier cherries her father grew in his garden. It is from a series she has called “The Fruit Poems”, and I reprint it here with her permission, as I respect that sort of thing. With my mom, anyway.
Yellow cherries
of my childhood
with a hint of carmine
fleshy and gay
eaten right off the tree
steadfastly
A caterpillar filled with glee
I took my pleasure thoroughly
made earrings with twinned fruit
day after day from morning to noon
No matter when Spring comes
trailing snows
late in the rainy season
the ripening of cherries
their savoring
remains
a durable rendezvous
– Liliane Richman
cherries image from furrygoat.com
Boing!
I keep meaning to get back to my tale of woe about the BSISD, and indeed, I will, as my ability to bitch and moan has no bounds, but right now my thoughts are consumed with other things: I have Spring Fever, when a young girl’s fancy turns to…well, I don’t really remember what I fancied as a young girl, on account of it’s been kind of awhile, but right now I am thinking about how my garden grows.
Since I am deep like the ocean and layered like an onion, even a simple seasonal cliche like that has much profound significance and is fraught with meaningful insight, but I’d like to begin with the literal garden, the one I plant every year. The weather turns, and much like a salmon compelled to swim upstream , I feel I’ve got to get outside and get digging. (I realize that this metaphor is perhaps not the most effective, seeing the obvious land vs. sea conflict, and, perhaps more relevantly that the salmon swims upstream to spawn before dying. The chances of that for me are growing increasingly slim and are highly unlikely to take place in my front yard, but it’s my blog and I’ll write what I please, thank you very much!)
This year is no exception. I started in my backyard and planted cantaloupe (Remember that old children’s whatever-you-call-it that went “Cantaloupe! Mother won’t lettuce”? Get it? Read it aloud…oh, never mind!). I also put in lots of tomatoes, cucumbers, parsley, tarragon, zucchini, arugula, chard, kale, green and purple beans, and three kinds of eggplants. One is all white, and called Hansel; one is purple, and called Gretel, and one is really big, black, and shiny, that I call Donkey Dick, though I don’t think that’s what it says on the seed packet. But wait! That’s not all! There are also peppers: Big Early Bell, Cayenne, Thai, Cowhorn, Sweet Banana, Jalapeno and Serrano, and flowers: the happiest of all flora, Gerber Daisies, with big, smiling orange, yellow and hot pink faces; jasmine, to flow over the fence and perfume the morning, and elegant, lavish ranunculus, which doesn’t do well in my area, but still, was too gorgeous to resist.
This is ranunculus. It comes in all different colors, and is a member of the buttercup family.
Don’t confuse it with “radonkulous“, which is how more than one fan describes Erykah Badu’s ass. You can check that ass out for yourself
right here: http://www.erykahbadu.com/ Click on the tag that says “Window Seat Official.” Radonkulous, I tell you!
Anyhoo, back to the garden. That’s just the backyard. I put a lot of effort in it this year, because in the summer, I like to wrap myself up in a sheet and drink my coffee on the lanai, which I believe is Hawaiian for patio. It will be nice to gaze all of the little seedlings pushing through the soil, watching them grow and flower, feeling bounteous and fortunate and connected to nature. In the front I’ll plant a mixture of veg and flowers, which drives my Japanese friend Denichiwa crazy every year. I guess in Japan, vegetables are relegated to the back yard, not right on up by the street. Welcome to my jungle, bay-bay!
I come from a long line of gardeners. Both grandfathers, though one was born in Philadelphia and the other in Hungary, grew magnificent trees, peach, plum, pear and cherries, and I have lovely childhood memories of discovering the fruits among the leaves with each patriarch. My mom’s garden is fantastic, lush, ever-changing, and well-tended. Part of it is hidden. It has it’s own special pathway and a little bench, and from there she can read and sing watch for squirrels over the whole backyard. In this picture, a sunbeam found her in the secret garden and she is happy.
My sister and brother-in-law have an amazing garden, with all kinds of vegetables and fruit trees, from the exotic to the humble. My nephew, who I’ll call Eli in this blog, has a plot in it where he grows carrots and nasturtium and a cactus he calls a “tush plant”. Ed built raised beds and planted an apricot tree this year. Their harvest is my gain; my sister will turn all of their crops into gourmet meals we’ll eat on Friday nights, with wine and toasts and magic shows and banjo sing-alongs.
At this point in the season, when the red, clay dirt that lays just under the surface of the newly purchased, rich, black soil has not yet conspired with the blazing sun to suck every bit of moisture from the earth and air, previous to long nights sleeping sitting up, Breathe-Rite taped across the bridge of my nose, feeling like I swallowed a wool sweater because my allergies have set in, before the tobacco worms (bastards!) start to feasting, prior to me considering a second job just to pay my water bills, and before my eyes scream out in protest of the sunscreen and sweat that flows into them from sunup to well after sundown, all is hope and optimism. The garden represents what could be, a certain harmony, a sense of freedom and well-being. When I am in the garden, I am just how I am, no pretense or self-consciousness, and I feel alive and perfect. Coinciding with my birthday as spring does, I am often given to reflection, and I that always leads to this intense feeling of gratitude. I’ve got it all. I am filled with joy and wonder. I see diamonds in the dew drops on a spider’s web, I dance in the shower when I wash the mud from out of my hair and between my toes, I retell my favorite jokes and I seek out the new.
Suddenly, I remember my fancy, and, birthday or no, I am a young girl again.
I love the garden. I love Spring. I love life.
My friend Krissy, who I wrote about in my birthday blog, died five days later, on March 27, 2010. Many people wrote and said beautiful things about her, including my friend Christina,
http://chmchm.wordpress.com/2010/03/21/krissys-room/, which was only fitting, as she was a beautiful woman. Someone quoted the Beatles “The End” – “And in the end/the love you take/is equal to the love/ you make”, which I think is the most fitting tribute of all to Miss Kris. This entry is dedicated to her. She helped my garden grow in all seasons, and I will plant something special for her, something that is ever green.
And Now For Something Completely Different…
Me, kissing the world from Paris. Nostrildamus!
This is a brief respite from the pre-Spring Break rant I embarked on in the last post. While I plan on getting back to my tirade about the BSISD, today is my birthday, and I am in great spirits, so I have to take a break from my righteous indignation to talk about how happy I really am. Indulge me.
I had a party and people who I loved came and toasted my good health. Today at school a freshman named Ruth wrote me a card that said “Happy Birthday. Now let’s take over the world!” The sign language class came and signed Happy Birthday to me. They looked ridiculous, but I loved it. Two of my old babysitters wrote to me; one of them, Shirley, has known me since I was born and still calls me her baby. A friend drew me a card that had a dog on it that had blue lips, and I got b’day love from Jamaica, Minnesota, Nebraska, Austin and New York. Other friends invited me to stay with them all summer. Another friend told me she hopes we never grow apart, she loves me so, and let’s spend more time together. I taught a boy how to write an outline and use embedded quotes, and a girl how to examine her breast for cancer. Two colleagues asked me to Happy Hour. Teachers love to drink, I tell you what. I watched season premieres of our favorite shows with my friend who henna’d my hair, which instantly made me young, tall and skinny. My nephew decorated his private fort for me. My niece made me a Shrinky Dink necklace that says “She is Great.” My sister made me my favorite dinner and lunch for tomorrow, and my brother made me laugh. My parents said they were proud of me.
I also said goodbye to an old friend; I’ve known her for about 25 years. Her kidneys and liver have failed, and she says she is ready to be out of pain. She gave me the greatest gift of all. She reminded me that life is grand; really grand, exquisite, something to be celebrated every day. She said she was proud that she had met so many people, and walked beside them, and that she was happy that she had a chance to walk alone, too. She is grateful. To be thankful for your time on this earth means that you have lived life well. My friend, Krissy, has. I won’t forget her, and I am so appreciative of the present she has left for me on my birthday…she gave me back the beauty of today.
My uncle tells a story about when I was little, about four years old. He asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He says I wrinkled my little brow and thought for a minute before I answered. “Happy, ” I said. “I want to be happy when I grow up.”
Wishes do come true after all. Happy Birthday to me!
From the “Truth is Stranger” Department…
One of the problems in fiction writing is that of credibility. Up to a certain point, a reader will willingly suspend reason and cheerfully allow himself to be manipulated by the author (I would actually pay extra for a little manipulation from an author! I like those intellectual types! ) After this point, however, if the story is simply too implausible or outrageous, trust between writer and reader is broken, and the reader resents the writer for wasting his time and being deceptive, or worse still, incompetent.
So, the problem is, how far can one go without losing the audience? How much are people willing to believe? At what point does the reader just throw the book off the bed and hiss, “OK, now you are just pissing me off!”?
For example, I am writing a story about a fictitious urban school district in a modern American town. Like all school district, this one professed to be “all about the kids”, and so, in order to better itself and its schools, this district- let’s call it BSISD – hired a very expensive consulting firm to measure the morale of the schools it ran, on the grounds that happy workers are productive workers who will churn out a quality product, which in this case is a well-educated, college-ready kid. The consultants generated charts and graphs in four colors and powerpoints with background music and short, humorous film clips that were both entertaining and enlightening. They developed questionnaires and methods for scrutinizing the validity of both the questions and the answers of the surveys, and then created MORE charts, graphs and powerpoints, using more colors, music and film clips to showcase the data that was collected. This took approximately three years, and then the consultants set about analyzing the data using a variety of criteria and comparisons that would determine if the Operational Health of the organization – the school- was healthy or not. This cost billions of dollars, but BSISD had long ago decided that expensive consultants were the best kind, and that the more they charged, the better the results proved to be.
Five years later, the firm had enough data and colored charts to create an Operational Health Index (OHI), in which a deliriously happy school would score 100 points. The BSISD was so concerned with getting data for the OHI to find out if the teachers and students in the schools were content, that the administration of the district had long ago stopped accepting complaints from the teachers and the students who voiced discontent for any reason. The theory was that they would get the chance to express their opinions on the well-researched questionnaires, which would then be dissected and analyzed be well-paid professional consultants. Then and only then could the results be disseminated and understood.
All of that was just background to the story. Exposition, if you will. Are ya still with me? It gets better…
CHAPTER ONE: Once upon a time there was a little elementary school in a large , urban school district called the BSISD. At one time there had been a happy faculty there, who lovingly taught adorable little kids how to color, count with beans, settle down for story time, tie their shoes, play the triangle or cowbells, and take naps. They sang lots of songs and performed plays about Thanksgiving, and they celebrated each others birthdays and Valentines. Some of the classes had a bird or a hamster or a goldfish, and everybody learned about responsibility by taking turns feeding the pets and cleaning their cages. The pets were usually named “Sunny” or “Fuzzy” or “Mr. Wiggles.” For the children, it was a great place to start their education, and every day, they skipped eagerly, hand in hand to the classrooms with their tiny chairs and cubby holes. When they graduated from the third grade, they knew how to read, write, add, subtract, multiply and divide, color inside the lines, the Pledge of Allegiance, that the policeman was their friend, and that even though Charlotte died, she had lived a good life and would never be forgotten.
However, times had changed.
OK, so Chapter One seems pretty likely. Nothing impossible here. I like the idea of a fish named Fuzzy.
CHAPTER TWO: The little elementary school was no longer a happy place. Someone had decided that the kids should all be the same, with all the same skills, talents and goals, and so programs had been cut in order to make way for classes that molded and restructured them. No more recess or nap time. No more arts and crafts; only worksheets, and only coloring INSIDE of the lines. Mr. Wiggles died and was never replaced. Students were instructed to walk only on the right side of the halls, no talking, hands to themselves. They wore little uniforms, and had a prescribed amount of homework every night. Some of the reading classes were taught from a script that the BSISD issued to the teachers every month. The script had segments for group snapping and clapping, and students and teachers were judged on their timing and adherence to the instructions on the page. There was no music. Parties were strictly forbidden, due to a lack of educational value, and plays took way too much time.
If a child wouldn’t fit into the mold, more rigid molds were created, as experts decided that all kids could be the same, if only they were motivated properly. Blind kids can learn to squint, and a good teacher never gave up on a child’s ability to master what had once seemed impossible. It was up to the teachers to motivate the children properly. This was stressful, as some students still insisted on being themselves. Teachers received training, and then more training. The training was always the same. It started off like this: “You are here because you are a bad teacher. Regardless of your years of experience or personal victories, you have always been a bad teacher. You must change. If you don’t change, you will be fired. You will become acceptable by copying data from computer screens onto spreadsheets, folders and stickers. Now let’s make some foldable graphic organizers to illustrate what we’ve learned.”
The teachers were sad, too. Many were scared, for themselves, yes, but also for their students, who they loved.
Chapter Two is getting a little out there. We live in a free society, and this is downright Orwellian. Nobody would believe that all kids are the same! That’s just stupid. That part about the teacher training is preposterous, too. What the hell is foldable?
Should I even go on? I know how this story ends up. Have I lost you already? Too ridiculous? Let me know if you are interested in Chapter Three, though I think I already know what your response will be – nobody really cares about the public schools, especially when the story is long, complex, unbelievable and depressing.
From the "Truth is Stranger" Department…
One of the problems in fiction writing is that of credibility. Up to a certain point, a reader will willingly suspend reason and cheerfully allow himself to be manipulated by the author (I would actually pay extra for a little manipulation from an author! I like those intellectual types! ) After this point, however, if the story is simply too implausible or outrageous, trust between writer and reader is broken, and the reader resents the writer for wasting his time and being deceptive, or worse still, incompetent.
So, the problem is, how far can one go without losing the audience? How much are people willing to believe? At what point does the reader just throw the book off the bed and hiss, “OK, now you are just pissing me off!”?
For example, I am writing a story about a fictitious urban school district in a modern American town. Like all school district, this one professed to be “all about the kids”, and so, in order to better itself and its schools, this district- let’s call it BSISD – hired a very expensive consulting firm to measure the morale of the schools it ran, on the grounds that happy workers are productive workers who will churn out a quality product, which in this case is a well-educated, college-ready kid. The consultants generated charts and graphs in four colors and powerpoints with background music and short, humorous film clips that were both entertaining and enlightening. They developed questionnaires and methods for scrutinizing the validity of both the questions and the answers of the surveys, and then created MORE charts, graphs and powerpoints, using more colors, music and film clips to showcase the data that was collected. This took approximately three years, and then the consultants set about analyzing the data using a variety of criteria and comparisons that would determine if the Operational Health of the organization – the school- was healthy or not. This cost billions of dollars, but BSISD had long ago decided that expensive consultants were the best kind, and that the more they charged, the better the results proved to be.
Five years later, the firm had enough data and colored charts to create an Operational Health Index (OHI), in which a deliriously happy school would score 100 points. The BSISD was so concerned with getting data for the OHI to find out if the teachers and students in the schools were content, that the administration of the district had long ago stopped accepting complaints from the teachers and the students who voiced discontent for any reason. The theory was that they would get the chance to express their opinions on the well-researched questionnaires, which would then be dissected and analyzed be well-paid professional consultants. Then and only then could the results be disseminated and understood.
All of that was just background to the story. Exposition, if you will. Are ya still with me? It gets better…
CHAPTER ONE: Once upon a time there was a little elementary school in a large , urban school district called the BSISD. At one time there had been a happy faculty there, who lovingly taught adorable little kids how to color, count with beans, settle down for story time, tie their shoes, play the triangle or cowbells, and take naps. They sang lots of songs and performed plays about Thanksgiving, and they celebrated each others birthdays and Valentines. Some of the classes had a bird or a hamster or a goldfish, and everybody learned about responsibility by taking turns feeding the pets and cleaning their cages. The pets were usually named “Sunny” or “Fuzzy” or “Mr. Wiggles.” For the children, it was a great place to start their education, and every day, they skipped eagerly, hand in hand to the classrooms with their tiny chairs and cubby holes. When they graduated from the third grade, they knew how to read, write, add, subtract, multiply and divide, color inside the lines, the Pledge of Allegiance, that the policeman was their friend, and that even though Charlotte died, she had lived a good life and would never be forgotten.
However, times had changed.
OK, so Chapter One seems pretty likely. Nothing impossible here. I like the idea of a fish named Fuzzy.
CHAPTER TWO: The little elementary school was no longer a happy place. Someone had decided that the kids should all be the same, with all the same skills, talents and goals, and so programs had been cut in order to make way for classes that molded and restructured them. No more recess or nap time. No more arts and crafts; only worksheets, and only coloring INSIDE of the lines. Mr. Wiggles died and was never replaced. Students were instructed to walk only on the right side of the halls, no talking, hands to themselves. They wore little uniforms, and had a prescribed amount of homework every night. Some of the reading classes were taught from a script that the BSISD issued to the teachers every month. The script had segments for group snapping and clapping, and students and teachers were judged on their timing and adherence to the instructions on the page. There was no music. Parties were strictly forbidden, due to a lack of educational value, and plays took way too much time.
If a child wouldn’t fit into the mold, more rigid molds were created, as experts decided that all kids could be the same, if only they were motivated properly. Blind kids can learn to squint, and a good teacher never gave up on a child’s ability to master what had once seemed impossible. It was up to the teachers to motivate the children properly. This was stressful, as some students still insisted on being themselves. Teachers received training, and then more training. The training was always the same. It started off like this: “You are here because you are a bad teacher. Regardless of your years of experience or personal victories, you have always been a bad teacher. You must change. If you don’t change, you will be fired. You will become acceptable by copying data from computer screens onto spreadsheets, folders and stickers. Now let’s make some foldable graphic organizers to illustrate what we’ve learned.”
The teachers were sad, too. Many were scared, for themselves, yes, but also for their students, who they loved.
Chapter Two is getting a little out there. We live in a free society, and this is downright Orwellian. Nobody would believe that all kids are the same! That’s just stupid. That part about the teacher training is preposterous, too. What the hell is foldable?
Should I even go on? I know how this story ends up. Have I lost you already? Too ridiculous? Let me know if you are interested in Chapter Three, though I think I already know what your response will be – nobody really cares about the public schools, especially when the story is long, complex, unbelievable and depressing.
BIRTHDAY GIFT
NOTE: This was actually written on March 5th, 2010, but I just now got around to posting it. Who cares, right? I like accuracy. Is that so wrong? A little background: I am an English teacher. For the past decade or so, I have been teaching Advanced Placement courses in high school English. Last year, my principal told me that I would be teaching a college prep course called AVID. It’s a fine course, and it serves a great need, but my heart is not in it. Before I was assigned the position, my principal told me that if I was still not committed by the end of the year, I could go back to teaching English. In the meantime, he has filled positions in the department, and I saw that he was making sure that there would not be a place for me. The writing has been on the wall for a long time, but it is a very hard story to read.
Also, I have a niece who I will call Ali in this blog.
Today I had a rough day at school. I met with my principal, a man without an advanced degree who insists on a title, and he told me, basically, that my department was better off without me in it. He’s full of shit; my colleagues ask for my help and students come to me every day for advice and editing. Still, it hurt my feelings, and for a moment I felt ashamed, as if I’d done something wrong and was being punished. After I left the office, I cried in the halls, rushing so as not to be late to my next class. The day finally ended and I got home, where I feel safe and uninhibited. I desperately needed a nap. I was drained. I felt like my face was melting. I lay down on the couch, and within minutes I felt myself losing consciousness. Right before I was O-U-T out, I had the sensation that Ali was twining her little stick arms around my hips, climbing up me like a monkey, pulling me close to her, a soft, warm baby, burrowing into me. I think, in my sleep, I smiled. I woke up late for our weekly Friday night dinner, and when I got to my sister and brother-in-law’s house, just like in my dream, Ali ran up and threw her arms around me, her sunflower face shining gold, squeezing out a pure ray of love. It was one of those moments in which the perfection of it all takes your breath away. I picked her up and told her about my reverie.
“Write it down, ” she said, “Then you will always remember what it feels like when I love you.”
I hope I never forget.
I sure am a lucky lady.
Saving Faces
My nephew and I like to check out this blog called “Faces In Places”. facesinplaces.blogspot.com It also has a sister site on flickr, and it is a series of pictures of objects that look llike human faces. It makes us smile.
Here are some faces I found for him.
Farrah Faucet
One man’s trash is another woman’s treasure!
Lunch faceSmaller Adventure News: BRRRR! Edition
1. Let me just start out by stating unequivocally that I LIKE the Olympics, all of the Olympics, even the Winter Olympics. The ice dancing, the speed skating, the cross-country skiing – I’m in for the whole three months, or however long they run. That being said, I feel you should also know that I have a doily collection, can’t be seen over my steering wheel, watch The Biggest Loser religiously, and have taken to cutting fruit into small sections to save for later. So what, right? I love the hope of the games, the back stories, the grace. In short, I am Joe Viewer in a rapidly aging demographic.
My students are completely uninterested about this epic athletic tournament. I asked them what was going on in the world of sports, and, I kid you not, they told me that the WWF had a new Smackdown Battleship Deathstar Cage Battle, or something like that.
I am part of a dying breed.
2. What if you had a dentist who was a doctor of double entendre; an oral surgeon who would do color commentary while he “practiced.” (Oooh! Tell me more!) An innuendodontist, if you will. Maybe it would go a little something like this,,,
Dr.: Good Morning! Do you see my pulsating, vibrating probe? How’d you like me to put that in your mouth?! Hahaha!
Patient: Well, I don’t know…
Dr.: I don’t care! I’m going to drill you now, like you’ve never been drilled before! Open wide and take it!
Patient: Brrnmmmgh!
Dr.: Hahaha! There! Yeah! I’ll bet that feels great! Yeah! You had a lot of grinding! Yeah! I’ll bet you like to grind at night! Even if nobody else is around, I’ll bet you’re just grinding away!
Patient: Grmmphh?
Dr.: That’s right! Who needs a good flossing?
I could go on, but I think you get the point. Clever, huh? Bet you’ve never thought of that!
3. So, if you live in the U.S., chances are, you’ve gotten some snow lately. Big fat, record- breaking, wet flakes came down steadily in my little town, clean, beautiful and somewhat surreal, muffling traffic and making everything seem simple, peaceful and elemental. Of course, that kind of charm wears off quickly. Moving around in the snow kind of sucks. Snowmotion is much like driving a Toyota: smooth and dependable for a time, just long enough to lull you into a false sense of security, so that you congratulate yourself on your prudence and skill, and then a sudden, extreme, uncontrollable acceleration that leaves you cursing and crying. Three inches of snow and I slipped on the driveway. Five inches and I skidded in front of Starbucks. Eight inches and I wiped out on my front steps. Twelve inches and I called in sick to work. I do love a snow day. http://smalleradventure.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html
Of course, that was before my electricity went out for four days. Do you know how much you use electricity? A lot. Really a lot.
4. This commercial is excellent. I said it and I mean it. I’m on a horse.
Have I mentioned I still can’t embed?
5. Updates: I finished Let the Great World Spin. I loved it.
I figured out that if you talk about CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG in your blog, people will hit that site. Holla, Cornwall!
I am still way into the Spoon cd. I dance, I sing. I really ought to learn the words.
Mr. Eagleman still hasn’t called me. Bastard.
Special shout out: Hello, Cheryl! I’m pleased as all get out that you like my blog! I can’t wait to meet you!
La Poeta
Writers, have you checked this out? It’s an Italian blog that, right now, is hosting an International Poetry Month. You can listen and/or read to all different types of poetry from all over the place. Not only that, but I believe Ms. McClellan might still be accepting submissions…