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March 7th, 2010

thrift scores

after the car wash and before i got to cleaning the inside of the car, as it sat in my muddy driveway and during which lee ann called, while she was driving down to no. va. to meet lorne and go see buddies, i went to the salvation army, even though i disapprove of the salvation army, and along with some half-off garments and nifty glassware, and though i already have 2 that don't glow in the dark, i got a basketball that does.

the line was very long. the kid behind me, on his own, had to be somewhere at 1:58, he told me, and he wasn't sure whether he could do it, with that long line. he'd just yesterday gotten his first grown-up phone, and he was taking pictures of the line to show as evidence of why he was late, if he turned out to be late. he held the basketball and glassware for me while i removed hangers and took off the fleece i'd tried on and decided to go ahead and get. after a bit i realized that most people don't pick times like 1:58 to meet people somewhere, though i do, so i asked him about that. that's when the bus was due on packard near stadium, and he was figuring that was a 10-minute walk, and was thinking he was gonna be out of luck. so i said i'd give him a lift. when we finally got to check out, we met up again at the front door and i drove him to the bus stop, all fake speedy, accelerating a little faster than normal and getting into it, like you do when you're a kid, or with one.

while we were in the car, with the kid holding the eggs i'd bought at the farmers' market (i'd thrown everything else into the back), his little brother---a tech nerd, he told me, proudly---called. little brother had gone online to check some map and found that the bus was running x minutes late, so we had a chance. the call added to the sense of event, adventure, zoom zoom. i bet it was that little brother who was waiting on packard when i dropped the fella off. big waves, smiles. and we were triumphant, for the bus had not yet come.

i thanked the kid for holding my eggs and my basketball, and he thanked me for the ride, jumping out with that victory "yeh!", and we were each off for the rest of our day.

in addition to cleaning the car, i finished scrubbing the bottom of the copper saucepan (family Revere ware) with the last of the Twinkle, washed most of the old dirt off my new basketball with the organic orange cleaner (and tested the ball for glowing---it works! beautifully! silhouettes of yer fingers against the weird green-yellow orb, and cats who wonder what the hell that is!), and used the Goo Gone to get the pesky stickers off my two skinny highball glasses with white line waves and my four short cocktail-type tumblers with the orange and yellow '70s-aesthetic pattern and the logo for We women's entertainment.

it's all about the weather today. something happens up here when we get the first glimpse that it might be breaking.
 

had to look up "amnion"

This this morning from Jill in Santa Fe:

OATMEAL

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk in it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that it is better for your mental health
      if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
      breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
      companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal with
      John Keats.
Keats said I was right to invite him: due to its glutinous
      texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime, and unusual
      willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal must never be
      eaten alone.
He said it is perfectly OK, however, to eat it with an
      imaginary companion,
and he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with
      Edmund Spenser and John Milton.
He also told me about writing the “Ode to a Nightingale.”
He wrote it quickly, he said, on scraps of paper, which he
      then stuck in his pocket,
but when he got home he couldn’t figure out the order of the
      stanzas, and he and a friend spread the papers on a table,
      and they made some sense of them, but he isn’t sure to this
      day if they got it right.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between
      stanzas,

and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration
      of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up and peer about,
      then lay itself down slightly off the mark, causing the poem
      to move forward with God’s reckless wobble.
He said someone told him that in life Wordsworth heard
      about the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling
      some stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
When breakfast was over, John recited “To Autumn.”
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the
      words lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn’t offer the story of writing “To Autumn,” I doubt if
      there is much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field got him
      started on it and two of the lines, “For Summer has o’er-
      brimmed their clammy cells” and “Thou watchest the last
      oozings hours by hours,” came to him while eating oatmeal
      alone.
I can see him---drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into
      the glimmering furrows, muttering---and it occurs to me:
maybe there is no sublime, only the shining of the amnion’s
      tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left
      over from lunch.
I’m aware that a leftover baked potato can be damp, slippery,
      and simultaneously gummy and crumbly,
and therefore I’m going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.

                                    -- Galway Kinnell



I haven't had oatmeal yet this morning, but now I'll be having it with Jill and Galway. Then more reckless wobble.

In bed this morning I started Bettina Aptheker's Intimate Politics, which I've had from the library for weeks, having come across it while googling a hunk of Adrienne's "Transcendental Etude" a fellow Adrienne lover had quoted. I know already I'm going to be recommending the book, so why wait. She's great with a sentence, is Bettina, while laying out some compelling memoir, with the bonus/hook for some/many of its glimpse into the radical history she was born into, but it's the radical honesty that is already knocking my socks off.

A long time ago a habit of radical honesty I began to practice practicing was no longer pretending to know the meanings of words I didn't know the meanings of, and in fact pointing out that I didn't know that word. Perhaps, if you've talked with me or (even more likely) corresponded or chatted by typing with me, you've noticed me reporting my heretofore ignorance of a word you've used. Maybe you've noticed me doing that more than once, maybe oddly much, maybe (thus) even as if compelled. And I've may've wondered whether you thought I think it's so interesting that it's the first time I've consciously gotten a new word, like geez I must think everything about what I know or don't know is so interesting. But the origin of the habit isn't in thinking my learning curve intrinsically so fascinating that it must be shared.

Though I guess I do sometimes, with some words, find it interesting that I've gone so long without picking up a certain one, particularly when it turns up again in the next few weeks, even more than once.

But I'm not surprised about "amnion," and I predict I won't be running into it all over the place this Spring.

One cool thing I picked up from Denise was her habit of going right to the dictionary, investigating right away and directly, by the book, a word she didn't know. Until then I would think something like "Huh, I don't know that word. Maybe I should try to remember it, to put it on a list later of words to look up at some point." Plus ever since I heard about "context clues" in, I dunno, some elementary school year, it seemed as if the real sharp folks learned most of their words that way. That's how we learned all the basics, after all. The dictionary didn't seem like the right tool.

Enough of this. To coffee, and oatmeal (and Jill and Galway and the last hour of Arwulf). But mental note: "Context Clues" is a title that could spawn a good poem. Or I think I have a poem in me for that title.
 
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