Hollywood Here We Come
Just letting the world know that Lauren brought her wigs to LA. Just in case.
For a recap of the trip from Jackson (pics included), click here.
(in case the other blogs need a friend)
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lmw
Don't Get Stinged
Bumble bees want to be nice. And they are. They won’t sting you if
you just look at them. The only times they sting you are when you try
to grab them. Or, when you step on them. Or, when you put them in your
mouth. So, don’t catch them or walk on them. Or try to eat them. ‘Cause
you’ll be stinged. They like when people look at them. And they like
looking at us.
Or so says a three year old.
An accidental metaphor? For everything?
Thank you, Lauren, for listening carefully and taking notes.
Filed under //
accidents
animals
bees
being nice
coexistence
lmw
metaphors
observation
warnings
wisdom
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Not a Poem Yet
I found these words, scribbled:
morning run in NH
New England heart
sparkling dew
magic mist
endless fence post
squishy mud
expect a rainbow
ferns you want to lick, eat
And turned them into these, an email to the original's author:
morning fun on earth
dew brings the heat
ferns misty in magic mud
endless
like a rainbow
or a fence
posts sparkling
and squishy
to eat
Mr. Stanley, my romantic poetry and travelwriting professor, would tell me that isn't a poem. Not yet, anyway. It's a reaction. An impression. A clever joke (his adjective, one I've never really been able to incorporate). A beginning. A draft.
The poem comes later. When every letter, every comma or capital not included, is a choice. A poem is a poem when it's fully intentional.
Stanley and I argued about that sometimes. What about jazz?, I'd ask. He'd shake his head and write the same comment on every piece of writing I ever gave him: It'll get better if you spend more time on it.
He's certainly more right than I was.
And that, above, is not a poem.
But it does have an alternate title: lick my heart, baby.
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Corns Only Make Me Walk Faster
Reading about Sick on Please Happy made me sing...
I was the kindergarten kid with wrinkled clothes
I dreaded school more than the Chicken Pox, and so I'd go...
Hey, Mom, I'm really feeling sick
I've been feverish
And I know
If I go to school today
I'd probably die on the way
From this cold
That's Derision. By Pain.
And this, Pose Ode, track 1 on Midgets With Guns, is one of those rare songs that applies to everything.
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No Jewels, No Nothing
Married to the Sea. Again. Thank you, Lauren, for sending me this one too.
I can't think of anything for myself at the moment, but if that grizzly bear was my sister, I'd play Isis (track 2 on Desire). Something about the rhymes she just can't handle...
She said, where ya been?
I said, no place special.
She said, you look different.
I said, well, I guess.
She said, you gonna stay?
I said, if you want me to, yes.
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The First Thing
Apparently, the first thought that comes clear in Pooh's bleary blinking consciousness every morning is what's for breakfast?
I think I'm a little less regular.
But, just to make sure, I'm going to try to notice for the next little while. And take some notes. And possibly adhere to the radical transparency thing. Possibly.
June 13: Probably my first fully conscious thought this morning was wait, WHAT time is it? But there were plenty of in-between thoughts before that. I was dreaming as I woke up about running a marathon, partly under streetlights and a dusky sky, partly in the early morning, on a huge and dilapidated red and yellow rubber track. I swam part of the race, because the water, which was ankle high for most of the running, had risen to my chest, and I figured I could go faster that way. And speed was a problem the whole time. I never felt like I was running as fast as I could be. I wasn't tired at all. I wanted to sprint. But my legs were in slow motion. Quite possibly, I now realize, because of the ankle deep water. The one thing that actually helped me go faster was a simple green canvas harness (like a pair of suspenders kind of) that an old high school classmate of mine, who was also running the marathon, gave me when we stopped for a moment inside the crumbling and overgrown indoor track that sat in a building that filled much of the oval inside the outdoor track. He told me he'd used the harness in Desert Storm, which I realized made no sense, but which I thought was kind of funny, because what the hell could a green canvas harness do for anyone. Make us run faster, apparently. Anyway, the other thing I realized many times throughout the dream was that it was a dream and that I was waking up and should be thinking about my first thought. But I liked the dream and didn't want to end it (I thought it'd be fun to finish the race). So, come to think of it, my first thought this morning might have been I hope I can keep this dream going.
June 14: Should I wake up or go back to sl... Should I wake up or go ba... Should I wake up or go back to sleep?
June 15: Wait, WHAT time is it? And are they really going to have a mixed martial arts performance at their wedding? I don't anything about the dream that gave rise to that question, but it must have been a dream, because I have no idea what a mixed martial arts performance would look like.
June 16: Fireworks. Noise. Gunpowder smoke. Shreds of inky, toxic paper sprayed everywhere. Not my favorite. But I can help a man out. (I woke up to a text from one of my cousins. He's getting married over Fourth of July weekend, and he wants to know if I have any fireworks strategy advice for him.)
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Spelling Mutations
Ever paused and considered an eye-catching typo and then wondered if the "correctly" spelled word wasn't once just a luckily timed and placed misspelling that quietly slipped into ubiquitous use?
Sowrds.
Swords.
Not obvious to me that we should be using the S W O spelling.
Just sayin.
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Sing The Song; Don't Be Long
Thought about posting Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.
Turns out I already have. It spurred a little discussion about mustaches. Which is often the goal on this blog.
This song works way better anyway.
Gamble Everything For Love is track 2 on Awake Is the New Sleep.
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Not a Stranger
I love that Lauren recognizes that there exist belting-out-of-car-windows, dancing-to-in-fields and humming-to-softly-en-route-to-climb-granite-in-the-Wind-River-Mountains kinds of songs.
My cousins Amory and Parker agree that a lot of Dave Matthews Band falls into that category.
It was in the desert, in a car, with the windows down that I first heard this song. It was my first Dave Matthews love, the song (and situation) that made it clear to me why people love him (and the Band) so much.
The Maker is track 1 on disc 2 of Live in Chicago.
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I Did My Best To Notice
Heard this in a bowling alley tonight. Knew it from a mix. Thanked the mix-maker. And then started wondering about singulars and plurals.
Are we human, or are we dancer?
Human, without the S on the end, is state of existence, not a group of people. Apparently the word dancer works the same way now too.
Hadn't worked that out until tonight.
Human is track 2 on Day & Age.
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