After work I'm going to a casual gala. More galas should be casual.
Starnes wants me to come see her. And bring the dog. It's hard to imagine. I've got tree service folks coming to give me an estimate soon-ish, and figure I'd better wait for the blow of that expense before I begin to think of leaving town for any real trip. Not to mention I have all manner of stuff to do here, and it's coming into my favorite season (boy is it nice out there today), But I have it in my head again to make a quick jaunt, with good timing, because I think it's bad for me not to leave the county for, like, years at a time. Bad for my health. My spiritual health.
Meanwhile, I'm metabolizing.
Saw some wimmin last night I've known for quite a while. Came away feeling like quite the free agent, independent operator, unmoored soul, soveriegn nation, unfettered engenderer. As well as person with stains on her shirt. As I left I ran into another woman, this one one I've known only in a parking lot, and soon she detected the arrival of one I hadn't met but had heard tell of. The two tried to get me to defect to their contingent, and to stay and drink with them. But I got gas and went home. Such was the choice of this free agent.
I didn't make it to the local opening night of the new Woody tonight. Later. Sleep soon, and day over, with its fucked up glasses and everything else.
Bert just came in to tell us that the Russian term for kissing numbers is contact numbers (only in Russian). We are more romantical, I said. After trying for a Tits joke that didn't go over.
Now he's telling Kerri how he made a salad for the neighborhood potluck this weekend. I made one too. I made a fruit one. A simple fruit one. I don't even know which salad was Bert's salad. There were a lot of salads there. It was salad-crazy. I had leftovers from the sampling I took home for all of yesterday's meals.
Hey, Bert, which one was your salad?
The one with the sugar snaps and radishes and ricotta salata and mint.
Oh, right. That one. That one was pretty good.
Mine was blueberries and nectarines. It's very simple. Here's a picture of an earlier version of the same pairing:
Mmmm. Sweet. The Michigan blueberries are real sweet this year, btw.
Hey, I almost forgot it's a voting day! If I hadn't seen Bert's "I voted" sticker just now, I'd have forgotten to stop and plunk down my two cents' on the city council. Phew!
My first idea:
This is the ending date declaration.
This is the Art Fair booth thing and then sing.
This is the toy problem problem.
This is the Bézout bio saved for fun.
This is a buffalo postcard from Jewels.
This is regular day of low chatting.
This is my heart, collapsed after screaming.
There is the new show with Masters the Taker.
There is a countertop wanting a clearing.
There are the animals. There are the foods.
There are the not saved for fun math reviews.
It's cool and lovely out, however.
It's been hard not to feel like a ticking bomb lately. Plus I don't know what's going on, and I'm trying to be okay with that. And there's that thing about how everything is uncertain so if you can't be comfortable with uncertainty you can't be comfortable. Yet I've certainly done a few good things lately in the taking-care-of-myself department. That's on the 7th floor, between lingerie and children's shoes.
Ms. Sandperson, how about some sweet ones tonight?
Other than that, it's been a really quiet day.
I talked to Cally for a coupla minutes, finding her on the bench outside the office door, here in her last week at this place.
It's warm and humid out. On break I brought Bert's trash cans in as well as mine. Project Sleepy Haven is well underway, but the pièce de résistance won't happen until tonight at the earliest.
I looked up the accents on pièce de résistance. I can't even remember the accent on à la. I suppose I could actually learn those things, instead of looking them up all the time.
If I'd been in a committee meeting during the consideration of "evol" as a brand name, I'd have been concerned that it sounds too close to "evil" when spoken aloud, if spoken aloud. This hasn't been a problem for me as a consumer of their frozen lunch options (which are notably cheaper hereabouts at Target vs. elsewhere), on accounta I don't have call to speak the name, but it makes me think I wouldn't want to be employed by them, what with needing to avoid saying something that sounds like "I work for evil."
I totally forgot I was gonna go to a thing yesterday evening.
I totally didn't know the Tony Awards show was on last night.
I totally was chillin' in the rainy afternooneve.
It's time to turn to the stuff of home, in earnest, or in more earnest. Seems like it should be "in earnest" then "in greater earnestness" then "most earnestally" (ok jk abt that last one). It's time to be being deliberate about socializing, with stock social stuff drying up for summer. It's (surely) (again and seemingly always) time to face facts and feel feelings. It's also 11:44 a.m.
I have a new weed wacker in the car, in its box. This is exciting and scary.
The times they are a-wrenchin', but also very very good. I can't even tell ya.
Alright, let's get this show on the road.
(1) I just signed on, late to the party, to join a subset of our chorus in joining members of Sing Out Detroit for an appearance at Motor City Pride this year. I've never been to Pride in Detroit. I was at something in Ferndale once, I think, maybe that was a Pride thing, not sure. Anyhow.
(2) Apparently there is a TV show called Orphan Black that I had somehow never heard of until today that has science geeks in love and girls kissing and strangeness.
These make nice additions to
(3) t h i s b r e a t h
Wind wiggles them. Now and then
they stick out arms, unhinge
the feathered flesh, its teenage
color changes like fresh paint,
highlights, with us those are called,
we who stretch and test and try not just
readying to leave the classic nest
but so over and over the eaglets are trite,
called up and hauled out to speak about us.
Yet there they are, literally.
There they are on the webcams,
one covered with eaglet shit
cuz yeah that camera angle
made for a great view
but the odds were way high
for some flying shit shoot
to hit the target, cloud the view,
need more than a season's rain
to clear up. This poem
is cloudy too, but some
shows through it, though
by this stanza it stopped
feeling like a poem and
I don't fucking care,
I'm detached fine from the
eaglets and their pending fledging too.
fledge pledge minwax wane
tippy tippy quite insane
riff on rhymes, associate,
mad men letterman conflate
there once was a man from nantucket
A few days ago I saw that I had a slightly flattened tire on my automobile. I took said automobile to the gas station at Main and Wm and put air in it. The air thingie didn't have one of those built-in pressure gauges (which are no doubt terribly inaccurate but Good Enough For Me call me a bad car steward fine that's fair) so I dug into my glove compartment and found that I did indeed have a tire gauge.
So I had the gauge in my pocket that night and took it out again the next day in case I needed it to re-check the tire, but the tire looked fine. It continues to look fine, but I continue putting it back into my pocket rather than back into the glove compartment. (Yes "glovebox" is shorter but I don't like "glovebox" or "glove box" as much.)
Having the tire pressure gauge in my pocket is good. Not quite a worry stone, but maybe sorta like that. A talisman more than a relic. A symbol (anything could be) and a comfort object. And a tire pressure gauge above all those.
And you can have this heart to break
"I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn't itch."
Sometimes, like just now, I realize it's odd I never saw any of many snapshots while they were still alive, while we were a family.
Your Glow is Pink
You exude love and compassion. You have a glow about you that is welcoming and uplifting.
Tracy was glad I could be in the work picture today, especially cuz I am wearing pink.
My old friend Steve could really rock a pink shirt.
I don't know who decided that, or when. I don't think it was Hallmark.
Among other daily poem feeds in April, I get one from Knopf, who provided this one today, from Mark Strand.
The sorrows of the rose were mounting up.
Twisted in a field of weeds, the helpless rose
felt the breeze of paradise just once, then died.
The children cried, “Oh rose, come back.
We love you, rose.” Then someone said that soon
they'd have another rose. “Come, my darlings,
down to the pond, lean over the edge and look
at yourselves looking up. Now do you see it,
its petals open, rising to the surface, turning into you?”
“Oh no,” they said. "We are what we are — nothing else."
How perfect. How ancient. How past repair.
It was on a concrete step, of all places. As I came back into the office.
Did it fall there?
Did it crawl there?
Snails say what? "Slow is okay"? "Good thing I have this shell"? Both?
Awaken. Get up. Go in.
The shiny happy nonutilitarian childlike goofy fun, of course hoorah, look what we do, but it's just all too cleaned up and nonugly in those pictures. There's beauty in the craggy ugly old ugly fat ugly misshapen ugly unkempt ugly possibly-insane colorful ugly, in the regularly attired people selling the newsletter of the homeless, in the curled up piece of food wrapper lodged in the corner of the pothole. She's just too fucking particular and tidy about her celebration. Some of her pictures shit yeah I love, but I also totally hate her.