Life is Cool!

May 24, 2006 12:04

I've been feeling kind of down lately, like I don't have any friends and that I don't matter in the greater scheme of things (which I know is a lie; we all matter; I know that). I haven't been taking care of myself like I should, Tree is going through Pre-Teen Hormone Hell, and work and school are stressing out Stormie. The only thing that keeps us sane is kitty love, although Cassie has been a Rebel Without Claws (cough - yes, she still has her claws - I'm just trying to be funny), running out the door whenever she can and rolling around in the grass, and Rascal has been chasing and barked at the ferals and objects visible only to little puffball doggies. Nothing is seriously wrong, but I feel kind of stuck right now. So reading stuff like the following helps me to remember how cool life is and how many adventures I still have to embark upon and discoveries to make, both inside myself and outside in the world. I wonder if all of this existential thought is a result of my current addiction to watching Six Feet Under? Monday night's episode, "Untitled," was shocking. It starts with four people stuck in an elevator. They manage to open the door and, while trying to pull the others to safety, the doors close on a man and he is cut in half. Blood splatters all over everybody. That really freaked me out. I'm pretty good at handling stuff like that, but that scene really got to me. (Note to self - never, ever try to slip into a closing elevator unless somebody hits the "open" button!) Then Nate visits his deceased wife Lisa's niece to ask her about a picture that the girl gave to him during Lisa's funeral. He noticed that the outfit Lisa wore was brand-new and surmised that the photograph had been taken on the day she died. The girl directed Nate to her father, who reveals that he had been having an affair with Lisa. As Lisa's sister listens to her husband's confession, Nate pleads with the man to tell him whether he killed Lisa or if she committed suicide. The man responds by sticking a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Blood spatters all over Nate's shirt.

Harry Potter Dino
This new species is related to my favorite dinosaur, pachycephelasaurus. The reconstructed head really does look like a dragon! I think I'll have to take a trip to the museum soon.

The baby peregrine falcons are growing up! Check out the Falcon Cam and Blog

A gentleman at my office found out that I was a poet after I posted something in our company news about last year's Masterpiece in a Day Competition. He gave me a special gift last week, a signed copy of a book of poetry by his mother, Mildred Trivers. She is very old and lives in a nursing home. Her son told me that she started the Humpback Barn Festival of Poetry and Art, which is currently held at the Minnetrista Cultural Center in Muncie, Indiana, and also received a Sagamore of the Wabash. I googled Mrs. Trivers and found this profile. I feel very honored to have a signed book of her poetry.

I'm reading The Folk of the Air by Peter S. Beagle. I was tickled by Peter's description of a restaurant called Thumper's, which serves "rabbit food" and am wondering if Farrell's lute will play an important part in the story. I'm also listening to The Amber Spyglass in the truck. I had to take a short break from listening because the library wouldn't let me renew it (somebody else had put a hold on it), so I turned around and put it back on hold myself. I love the mysterious wheel people and wonder if they look, in the author's mind, the way I imagine them. I still can't figure out whether Lyra's mom, Mrs. Coulter, is good or bad. Of course, nobody's really on one end of the spectrum or the other. I usually love ambiguous characters like Severus Snape, but I still don't like her. It must be that golden monkey. It freaks me out.

I love the poems so far this week in The Writer's Almanac.

Fireflies by Richard Newman

Tonight my yard is full of fireflies-
a glitterfest of green, blinking by hundreds,
exactly like last year, when she and I
drove out into the Missouri countryside
to talk about our marriage. It was thick
with greenery. The air was hot and thick,
and we had decided to try and stay together,
though by first light she'd changed her mind again,
and, to be honest, our eleventh hour
hope and promise lacked the weight of truth.
We wandered off the rocky dirt road
over weeds and brambles, through branches
and spiderwebs, and pressed into a clearing,
and it was like a pocket in the darkness
that surrounded us-the misty night
backlit with thousands of glittering fireflies
bettering the stars. It was a mating dance,
and we gazed into a sputtering green sea
of desire-such irresistible beckoning.
Ours was, too-a death-dance of mating,
a slower, indecisive tarantella,
and she asked me never to write about this,
but I knew then that I had nothing to lose,
that at that moment there was nothing I wanted
more than to write about the fireflies.

Philosophy in Warm Weather by Jane Kenyon

Now all the doors and windows
are open, and we move so easily
through the rooms. Cats roll
on the sunny rugs, and a clumsy wasp
climbs the pane, pausing
to rub a leg over her head.

All around physical life reconvenes.
The molecules of our bodies must love
to exist: they whirl in circles
and seem to begrudge us nothing.
Heat, Horatio, heat makes them
put this antic disposition on!

This year's brown spider
sways over the door as I come
and go. A single poppy shouts
from the far field, and the crow,
beyond alarm, goes right on
pulling up the corn.

life, family, poetry

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