“You’re told that you’re in your head too much, a phrase that’s often deployed against the quiet and cerebral. Or maybe there’s another word for such people: thinkers.” ~ Susan Cain, from Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

Friday afternoon, mostly cloudy and cold, 44 degrees.

I’m still not feeling together enough to string together a real blog. Yesterday, I sat at the keyboard for hours without a single original word hitting the screen. It’s very frustrating as I had told myself that once I returned to this blog, that I would post regularly. But the truth is that I can only post as regularly as the muse allows, and at the moment, the must is being suppressed by overwhelming body pain, the source of which I am uncertain.

It’s not just the morning migraines; now, it’s also my back, a source of such localized pain the likes of which I haven’t had to contend with for quite a while. Anyway, that’s what’s going on. I hope to have a real post up tomorrow, but in the  meantime, I have quite a good collection of leftovers for today (in my humble opinion.

Enjoy!


So Gillette came out with a commercial for the MeToo movement:

Never before seen error code:

Error 503 Backend is unhealthy

I have always loved Andre Braugher, most especially in “Homicide,” one of the best shows to ever be on television.

From gaymilesedgeworth (a deactivated tumblr account): One of my favorite things in Brooklyn Nine Nine is when you can tell the writers were like “You know, Andre Braugher is an extremely talented Shakespearean actor who graduated top of his class at Juilliard…..what if we took advantage of that for our sitcom”

This is a good depiction of either of my older dogs, Tillie and Bailey, every time a puppy comes near:

The San Francisco Examiner, California, April 10, 1927

A murmuration in Otmoor, London, UK (1-4-19), something I’ve always wanted to see:

In 2015, a drought in the southern Mexican state of Chiapas revealed the ruins of a 400-year-old church, Temple Santiago:

Temple Santiago Image by David von Blohn (AP)

From Ultrafacts:

Here’s a video:

I didn’t know this:

And finally:

More later. Peace.

 

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“Ask her what she craved, and she’d get a little frantic about things like books, the woods, music. Plants and the seasons. Also freedom.” ~ Charles Frazier, from Nightwoods

Writer Anne Sexton (1928-1974)

A Different Two for Tuesday

Tuesday afternoon, mostly cloudy and colder, 36 degrees.

Greetings to those of you out there in the ether. Hoping you are well. Luckily, we’ve missed the massive storm that’s hitting everyone, and all of the dogs are better and doing well. So that’s a definite relief.

Apologies for the dearth of posts in recent days; we’ve had Wi-Fi issues, as I stated last night. I hope to be able to do a regular post tomorrow, but I’ve had this particular post planned for a couple of weeks.

Instead of two shorter poems, I’ve been saving this beautiful longer poem by one of my favorite writers, Anne Sexton—

Letter Written During a January Northeaster

Monday

Dearest,
It is snowing, grotesquely snowing
upon the small faces of the dead.
Those dear loudmouths, gone for over a year,
buried side by side
like little wrens.
But why should I complain?
The dead turn over casually,
thinking:
Good! No visitors today.
My window, which is not a grave,
is dark with my fierce concentration
and too much snowing
and too much silence.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs,
no smells, no shouts nor traffic.
When I speak
my own voice shocks me.

Tuesday

I have invented a lie,
there is no other day but Monday.
It seems reasonable to pretend
that I could change the day
like a pair of socks.
To tell the truth
days are all the same size
and words aren’t much company.
If I were sick, I’d be a child,
tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth.
As it is,
the days are not worth grabbing
or lying about.

Monday

It would be pleasant to be drunk:
faithless to my own tongue and hands,
giving up the boundaries
for the heroic gin.
Dead drunk
is the term I think of,
insensible,
neither cool nor warm,
without a head or a foot.
To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
I will try it shortly.

Monday

Just yesterday,
twenty eight men aboard a damaged radar tower
foundered down seventy miles off the coast.
Immediately their hearts slammed shut.
The storm would not cough them up.
Today they are whispering over Sonar.
Small voice,
what do you say?
Aside from the going down, the awful wrench,
The pulleys and hooks and the black tongue . . .
What are your headquarters?
Are they kind?

Monday

It must be Friday by now.
I admit I have been lying.
Days don’t freeze
And to say that the snow has quietness in it
is to ignore the possibilities of the word.
Only the tree has quietness in it;
quiet as a pair of antlers
waiting on the cabin wall,
quiet as the crucifix,
pounded out years ago like a handmade shoe.
Someone once
told an elephant to stand still.
That’s why trees remain quiet all winter.
They’re not going anywhere.

Monday

Dearest,
where are your letters?
The mailman is an impostor.
He is actually my grandfather.
He floats far off in the storm
with his nicotine mustache and a bagful of nickels.
His legs stumble through
baskets of eyelashes.
Like all the dead
he picks up his disguise,
shakes it off and slowly pulls down the shade,
fading out like an old movie.
Now he is gone
as you are gone.
But he belongs to me like lost baggage.


Music by Down Like Silver, “Any Day”

From “After the Theatre”

“What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?” ~ Ellen Bass, from “If You Knew”

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy, 56 degrees.

Well, Maddy is better, but I’m not certain that she’s out of the woods. She had a good day yesterday, but last night she was really sick again. Today, she’s acting better, and she managed to eat some breakfast. All we can do at this point is continue to watch her closely and hope.

Illustration to Chekhov’s A Dreary Story, by Tatyana Shishmaryova (1953)

Tink seems fine these days, playing and running around with her tail up, so at least there’s that. All of the other animals seem to be okay. The big surprise is that last night Corey came home with chickens. Apparently, Dallas bought a bunch of chickens from someone who he knows, and he decided that we should have some.

We do have a chicken coop, and we had plans for chickens in the spring, but the coop is still kind of torn up so Corey needs to work on that right away. For whatever reason, we just keep having animals dropped on us. I’m not sure how I feel about it all, partially good, partially bad. It just seems like a lot all at once, but as with everything else, we’ll find a way to deal.

At least we’ve had some sun the last few days, and the weather is milder. I had hoped that I had more to say, but I’ve been sitting here for over two hours and I just cannot find the words; I’ll leave you with an apt selection from Anton Chekhov’s novella, A Boring Story: From the Notebook of an Old Man (also translated as A Dreary Story):

I write poorly. That bit of my brain which presides over the faculty of authorship refuses to work. My memory has grown weak; there is a lack of sequence in my ideas, and when I put them on paper it always seems to me that I have lost the instinct for their organic connection; my construction is monotonous; my language is poor and timid. Often I write what I do not mean; I have forgotten the beginning when I am writing the end. Often I forget ordinary words, and I always have to waste a great deal of energy in avoiding superfluous phrases and unnecessary parentheses in my letters, both unmistakable proofs of a decline in mental activity. And it is noteworthy that the simpler the letter the more painful the effort to write it .

. . . As regards my present manner of life, I must give a foremost place to the insomnia from which I have suffered of late. If I were asked what constituted the chief and fundamental feature of my existence now, I should answer, Insomnia.

More later. Peace.

“He finds himself bored by the shenanigans of highly spirited young men. Their concerns reside somewhere between balder and dash.” ~ Sara Sheridan, from Secret of the Sands

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

Friday morning, completely overcast with drizzle and fog, 48 degrees.

I have quite the collection today. My editorial asides are in italics below. Enjoy.


I don’t know why I found this so funny:

This actually happened:

From Memes & Comedy:

Also from Memes & Comedy:

Apparently, this has been a problem for longer than people thought, and no, the irony isn’t lost on me:

The Wichita Daily Eagle, Kansas, December 30, 1899

The Saint Paul Globe, Minnesota, March 2, 1905

The Tribune, Seymour, Indiana, July 13, 1909

The Atlanta Constitution, Georgia, May 13, 1912

The Evening Journal, Wilmington, Delaware, June 11, 1913

Woodson County Advocate, Yates Center, Kansas, August 6, 1915

The Guntersville Democrat, Alabama, June 22, 1921

Oh, the irony . . .

Daily News, New York, New York, February 13, 1925

The Courier-Journal, Louisville, Kentucky, May 22, 1950

I found most of these hilarious, but then, I’m easily amused. Be forewarned, several are audibly groan-worthy:

48 Incredibly Short, Clean Jokes That Are Actually Funny

  1. I bought some shoes from a drug dealer. I don’t know what he laced them with, but I’ve been tripping all day.
    ImHully
  2. I told my girlfriend she drew her eyebrows too high. She seemed surprised.
    megan_james

  3. Two clowns are eating a cannibal. One turns to the other and says “I think we got this joke wrong”
    Moltenfirez

  4. My wife told me I had to stop acting like a flamingo. So I had to put my foot down.
    Spysquirrel

  5. What’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws?
    Outlaws are wanted.
    Dave-Stark

  6. I bought my friend an elephant for his room.
    He said “Thanks”
    I said “Don’t mention it”
    3shirts

  7. I have an EpiPen. My friend gave it to me when he was dying, it seemed very important to him that I have it.
    kate_winslat

  8. I poured root beer in a square glass.
    Now I just have beer.
    PM_ME_TINY_DINOSAURS

  9. What’s the difference between a hippo and a zippo?
    One is really heavy, and the other is a little lighter.
    alosercalledsusie

  10. My friend says to me: “What rhymes with orange” I said: “no it doesn’t”
    DinosRoar1

11. And God said to John, come forth and you shall be granted eternal life.
But John came fifth and won a toaster.
PM-SOME-TITS

12. How many opticians does it take to change a lightbulb?
Is it one or two? One… or two?
Undescended_testicle

13. What do we want?
Low flying airplane noises!
When do we want them?
NNNEEEEEEOOOOOOOOWWWWWW.
Tetragon213

14. What do you call a frenchman wearing sandals?
Phillipe Phillope.
Sooowhatisthis

15. What’s orange and sounds like a parrot?
A carrot.
BiffWhistler

16. What do you call a dog that does magic tricks?
A labracadabrador.
leahcure

  1. So what if I don’t know what Armageddon means? It’s not the end of the world.
    Jefferncfc
  • How do you get two whales in a car? Start in England and drive west.
    fireworkslass

  • A blind man walks into a bar. And a table. And a chair.
    ImHully

  • Why did the old man fall in the well?
    Because he couldn’t see that well.
    rangers_fan2

  • I bought the world’s worst thesaurus yesterday. Not only is it terrible, it’s terrible.
    Rndomguytf

  • This is my step ladder. I never knew my real ladder.
    WikiWantsYourPics

  • My friend asked me to help him round up his 37 sheep.
    I said “40”
    3shirts

  • I’ve found a job helping a one armed typist do capital letters.
    It’s shift work.
    3shirts

  • I went bobsleighing the other day, killed 250 bobs.
    breadman666

  • I have the heart of a lion and a lifetime ban from the Toronto zoo.
    kailey_sara

  • What’s the difference between a good joke and a bad joke timing.
    Melchiah_III

  • Wife says to her programmer husband, “Go to the store and buy a loaf of bread. If they have eggs, buy a dozen.” Husband returns with 12 loaves of bread.
    SuperFreakyNaughty

  • Communism jokes aren’t funny unless everyone gets them.
    -georgie

  • What did the pirate say when he turned 80 years old?
    Aye matey.
    Wicked_Wanderer

  • What do the movies titanic and the sixth sense have in common.
    Icy dead people.
    mysevenyearitch

  • Knock Knock
    Who’s There?
    Dishes
    Dishes Who?
    Dishes Sean Connery.
    Birdie_Num_Num

  • Have you heard about those new corduroy pillows? They’re making headlines.
    Deerhoof_Fan

  • Two men meet on opposite sides of a river. One shouts to the other “I need you to help me get to the other side!”
    The other guy replies “You are on the other side!”
    The2ndKingInTheNorth

  • I couldn’t figure out why the baseball kept getting larger. Then it hit me.
    KaboomBoxer

  • My friends say there’s a gay guy in our circle of friends… I really hope it’s Todd, he’s cute.
    -917-

  • People in Dubai don’t like the Flintstones.
    But people in Abu Dhabi do!
    stevenmc

  • Guy walks into a bar and orders a fruit punch.
    Bartender says “Pal, if you want a punch you’ll have to stand in line” Guy looks around, but there is no punch line.
    justacheesyguy

  • I’ve been told I’m condescending.
    (that means I talk down to people)
    iblinkyoublink

  • How did the hipster burn his mouth?
    He ate the pizza before it was cool.
    plax1780

  • Before your criticize someone, walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you do criticize them, you’re a mile away and have their shoes.
    BoxxerUOP

  • What’s ET short for?
    He’s only got little legs.
    3shirts

  • What’s the difference between a dirty old bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One is a crusty bus station the other one is a busty crustacean.
    laurtw

  • Why arent koalas actual bears?
    They dont meet the koalafications
    ImHully

  • It’s hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.
    auran98

  • I want to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather did, not screaming in terror like the passengers in his car.
    msdarth

  • Some people think it’s romantic to carve their names on trees in the park while on a date.
    I’m more worried about why they’re bringing a knife on their date.
    I_know_where_you_is

  • 2 cows are grazing in a field. 1 cow says to the other, “You ever worry about that mad cow disease?”. The other cow says, “Why would I care? I’m a helicopter!”.
    Electric_Evil

  • “The opinions that are held with passion are always those for which no good ground exists; indeed the passion is the measure of the holder’s lack of rational conviction.” ~ Bertrand Russell, from Sceptical Essays

     
    Image result for quotes about how people will believe anything
    (Thanks to View Pacific for reminding me of this one.)

    “It’s hard to fathom the level of grubby exploitation you’ve reduced yourself to, to turn a buck off of people who are watching their loved ones die in slow-motion” ~ Daryl Khan, whose father hoped food-grade hydrogen peroxide would cure his wife Susan’s cancer

    Thursday evening, cloudy again, 48 degrees.

    Abraham Lincoln’s opinions on the internet notwithstanding, a little something different for today . . .

    So you wouldn’t believe the number of websites, books, videos, and pamphlets that I found from supposed health gurus, truth tellers, and conspiracy theorists who want you to introduce food-grade hydrogen peroxide into your life, you know, for all of the health benefits, because it can cure gingivitis and cancer, simultaneously, and, well, just because.

    Found on the Truth About Cancer website
    PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T FALL FOR THIS! IT’S A BUNCH OF HOOEY THAT CAN DAMAGE YOUR INTERNAL ORGANS AND POSSIBLY KILL YOU!

    According to a 2017 article in The Washington Post, “Hundreds of people have become severely ill and at least five have died after consuming high-concentration hydrogen peroxide that some people take as an additive to their diets, according to a new study.”

    A ten-year study by the U.S. National Poison Data System and the American Association of Poison Control Centers (AAPCC) was published in Annals of Emergency Medicine; the study encompassed the years 2001-2011. During that time, “nearly 300 cases of high-concentration peroxide poisoning were identified.”

    Dr. Benjamin Hatten, the lead study author, told CBS News that

    The poisoning resulted in significant physical injuries, ranging from respiratory distress to seizures, strokes and heart attacks. About 14 percent of the patients experienced heart embolisms, while 7 percent died or had long-term disability after drinking hydrogen peroxide.

    According to the NCBI of the NIH:

    Hydrogen peroxide is relatively unstable and will rapidly decompose, through an exothermic reaction, into water and oxygen in the presence of alkali, metals and the enzyme catalase, which is found in mucous membranes, liver, kidney, red blood cells and bone marrow (). There are three main mechanisms of toxicity from hydrogen peroxide: caustic injury, oxygen gas formation and lipid peroxidation ().

    The brown bottles of hydrogen peroxide that most of us have in our homes are 3 percent solutions. That’s a big difference from food-grade, which is usually a 35 percent solution, and often these food-grade jugs are clear or milky, resembling bottled water or milk products, and that’s a big problem if you have kids in your home, especially if they cannot read. The average amount of hydrogen peroxide in things like toothpaste and mouthwash is .1 percent. For more related facts, go here.

    Go here for a good article explaining why food-grade hydrogen peroxide is not good for your health.

    A marketing campaign aimed at making you believe that this is legitimate

    I know that it might seem odd coming from me that I’m so adamantly against ingesting so-called food-grade hydrogen peroxide, but the supposed health benefits of using this dangerous 35 percent concentration, even diluted have never been studied by any reputable lab.

    HydroProx-35-Pure-35-Food-Grade-Hydrogen-Peroxide-Diluted-to-8

    Look, in recent years I’ve been trying to find natural and/or homeopathic and/or cruelty-free products in all areas of my life, but, and this is a BIG but, I research every supplement and/or vitamin that I add to my regimen; I monitor side effects and any possible benefits before deciding whether to continue or discontinue. And I in no way claim to be an authority on any of this.

    I can tell you that Manuka honey has natural antibacterial properties that can do wonderful things for minor skin wounds. And rosehip oil is a wonderful moisturizer for your face. And snail slime, yep, even that, has beneficial properties. But a solution of diluted 35 percent hydrogen peroxide will not cure cancer, nor will it help with diabetes, nor will it help to oxygenate your cells.

    I wrote this post because I had been sucked in by an article on the whole food-grade benefits about a month or two ago (who remembers time, so ephemeral…), so much so that I even priced a bottle on Amazon at that time (which has supposedly since banned 35 percent solutions, but a few can still be found). But then I began to dig deeper, and I realized that what was being touted was snake oil—pure and simple. And that’s the case with many, many supplements, health rinses and tonics (like turpentine), etcetera that are on the market today.

    All that I am saying is please, please do your due diligence. Be an informed consumer, not a ill-informed victim.

    More later. Peace.


    And FYI:

    Image result for Poison control center

    “Watching the sunlight on distant smoke today–how far away and remote it seemed” ~ Charles Burchfield, Journal entry January 2, 1931

    Low Lying Fog in California, by Ken Xu, FCC

    “Let the light and the winds colour and cleanse my blood.” ~ Gabriela Mistral, from “Quietness”

    Wednesday  afternoon, overcast, 48 degrees.

    Hello out there in the ether. Hope today finds you well. Yesterday I completely forgot that it was Tuesday, which meant that I had a Two for Tuesday post all ready to go. That’s how much my mind is in disarray: I have to  look at my phone to see what day it is. Does anyone else have that problem?

    Trees in the Mist, Hayle England, UK (FCC)

    I usually begin my day here with a little organizing, trying to figure out what I have to say, thinking about accompanying images and songs, and then I usually watch a few YouTube videos that I subscribe to—Tati (beauty guru), Alexandria (unboxings and try ons), and then maybe someone else. It’s a distraction, and when I’m finished, I feel as if I’ve cleaned my palette, and I’m ready to go with the words.

    For a short minute I thought about starting a YouTube channel, but man, people on there are vicious in their commentaries. One wrong word, and your channel explodes. I just don’t have either the patience or the thick skin for that, so I won’t be putting myself out there for that anytime soon.

    I never get tired of watching this,
    As the mists seem to move, then not move.
    They don’t, of course, but merely disappear.
    ……………………………………………………….Perhaps that’s why I like it. ~ Charles Wright, from Littlefoot: “25”

    A few mornings ago (maybe even yesterday?), the fog rolled in very quickly and lay within the trees at the back of the house like one of those old cotton Christmas tree skirts everyone used to use once upon a time. It was so fast, and by the time I thought about taking some pictures, it was gone; hence the Flickr Creative Commons pix of fog. I thought I’d try to get a variety of locations.

    Trees in the Mist, Austria (FCC)

    Fog has always fascinated me, ever since I was a young child in England. I’m certain that I’ve written about this before, but I still have vivid memories of being caught out in the fog in London and not being able to see anything. It was a different kind of fog—very, very thick and impenetrable. I remember a man walking in front of the buses with a lantern on a ladder to guide the driver.

    I have no idea if they still get fog like that. I mean it was a long time ago, and even if they do, I’m sure that no longer use lanterns on ladders. But the first time that mom and I were out in that, it was pretty scary. I, obviously, had never seen anything like it, but then to realize that my mother was as scared as I was—something like that can really unnerve a child.

    We were still living in the old house outside of London at the time, the house with the haunted bedroom. Man, if only I could remember where that was. I have absolutely no idea, and I’ve never found anything of mom’s that had that address on it.

    “I really love fog. It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you anymore.” ~ Eugene O’Neill, from Long Day’s Journey Into Night

    I’ve driven through some really terrible fog more than a few times, but it doesn’t bother me. I find fog oddly comforting and beautiful. Living near the Chesapeake Bay, we could get some thick fog rolling in across the bay; of course, I wasn’t on the water at the time. I would imagine that people who work on the water as Corey used to do not find fog at all comforting.

    Misty World, Vallée du Grésivaudan, French Alps (FCC)

    It’s just that in heavy fog, sound changes. It can become completely muffled, and then light seems to disappear. I’ve always imagined having a scene in a book in which someone who is lost in a thick fog comes face to face with the killer. Yes, my mind does go to places like that, frequently, actually. I’m always mulling over plots for mysteries. The problem is that the mulling never moves beyond that.

    It makes me wonder if I’m just a dilettante: someone who likes to know a little bit about a lot of things without ever specializing in any of them, and perhaps in a way, I am. I’m a curmudgeonly dilettante who loves words. What to make of that? Hmm . . .

    Things that make you go hmm…………

    “The light is flat and hard and almost nonexistent,
    The way our lives appear to us,
    ……………………………………………..then don’t, as our inlook shifts.” ~ Charles Wright, from Littlefoot: “25”

    I suppose that’s enough about the fog, but it’s such a wonderful image, and metaphor, and memory, actually. It’s taken me several years since my mother’s death to begin to remember more. Our relationship was so fractured that I think I tried very hard not to think about her in the immediate months following her death. But now, with some distance, I can begin to sort through the memories better.

    One of the sad things, though, is that I know without a doubt that my mom was happiest in England. It seems like everything after that was just a disappointment for her, her marriage, her location, her family, everything. And I only realized too late that it would have been such a simple thing for me to offer to go back to London with her for a visit, but I never did. It never even occurred to me to do that, and now I cannot.

    Mountains in mist and fog, Indonesia (FCC)

    And so the memories of the two of us exploring every inch of London and the surrounding environs are more immediate, as it were.

    It’s hard for me to think of my relationship with my mother as a whole. I’ll give you a classic example of how it was with us: My cousin once told me that my mother talked about me all of the time, and he could tell that she was proud of me. This caught me completely off guard. I never would have believed it if he hadn’t said it as I can remember exactly one time as a teenager or adult that my mother told me that she was proud of me.

    One. Time.

    Perhaps she said it as a matter of course when I was a child, because I was very much as Alexis was as a child: everything you could want in a daughter—smart, polite, attentive, hard-working, focused. Perhaps when I hit puberty, I became a foreigner to my mother, much as Alexis did to me when she entered high school.

    Perhaps. Who knows? Certainly not I.

    “Gloom is literally atmospheric, climate as much as impression . . . Gloom is more climatological than psychological, the stuff of dim, hazy, overcast skies, of ruins and overgrown tombs, of a misty, lethargic fog.” ~ Eugene Thacker, Cosmic Pessimism 

    As these things are want to do, I have said much more than I had planned to say. The genesis was the fog, and then the floodgates opened. And truthfully, I’m not in the best place emotionally or mentally for open floodgates. I’ve spent the last two days in my pajamas, and when I looked in the mirror last night, I had to admit to myself that I just plain looked rough.

    Der Nebel, Gilbert-Noël Sfeir Mont-Liban (FCC)

    It’s been a rough kind of week. Tink isn’t out of the woods yet, and it’s hard for either of us to concentrate on much else, but I decided today to make an effort, you know, bath, put on clean clothes, maybe some lipstick, try to write, do more than just stare blankly at the screen. And so this is that effort.

    Anyway, because it’s on my mind as well, I am reminded of a line from Charles Wright’s Littlefoot: “I live here accompanied by clouds.” There are so many clouds here, and I don’t yet know if that’s a year-round thing, or just fall and winter. My father would have hated that part. I’m fairly certain that he had Seasonal Affected Disorder; as the months became colder and light began to fade, his depression would worsen.

    I can relate. I know that my own temperament is greatly affected by the weather. Take today, for instance: no sunlight anywhere, nothing dappling on the leaves on the trees. Just grey clouds, and clouds aren’t the same as fog. Grey clouds—unlike fluffy white clouds shaped like animals—are just, well, there, making everything look cold and grey and yes, gloomy.

    So enough of that.

    More later. Peace.


    Music by Paloma Faith (loving her these days), “Only Love Can Hurt Like This”


    Missing the Dead

    I miss the old scrawl on the viaduct,
    the crazily dancing letters: BIRD LIVES.
    It’s gone now, the wall as clean as forgetting.
    I go home and put on a record:
    Charlie Parker Live at the Blue Note.
    Each time I play it, months or years apart,
    the music emerges more luminous;
    I never listened so well before.
    I wish my parents had been musicians
    and left me themselves transformed into sound,
    or that I could believe in the stars
    as the radiant bodies of the dead.
    Then I could stand in the dark, pointing out
    my mother and father to all
    who did not know them, how they shimmer,
    how they keep getting brighter
    as we keep moving toward each other.

    ~ Lisel Mueller