Thursday, April 20, 2017

4/20/2017

What scares me is how human we are.  Blinkered, biased, bound to the forces that shaped our evolution millennia ago.  We hamstring ourselves, yet imagine we run free.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Almost Easter


Fat bees drift toward
overgrown honeysuckle,
twice my height and yours.

In the damp, a bird
hurls itself into the heart
of the new window,

beats its wings to right
itself, slaloms past the glass.
We grow old watching.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Daylight

There's a monstrosity to Daylight Saving Time.  It's Victor Frankenstein, lopping an hour from the sweetest part of the day and stitching it sloppily onto dusk.  You go from bounding out of bed bathed in light to hauling your limbs, one by one, into darkness.  Forcing down breakfast in darkness.  Slipping out for the paper in darkness. 

The missing daylight boomerangs back, of course, but it comes too late, slapping you across the face like true love after a couple of weddings and three kids.  Light unneeded and unwanted, but impossible to ignore.

I recognize my irritation is out of proportion, my prose too purple, my rage too raw.  I have bigger problems, and you do, too.

But there's a satisfaction in resisting the inevitable.  It's what we do for most of our lives, up to end, down to the dregs. 

Do not go gently into this new time zone.  Rage, rage against the mauling of the light. 

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Dry

Every part of me feels dry.  My hands are chapped; my lips are peeling; the skin beneath my nose is raw.  The inside of my throat, usually moist, scrapes against the back of my tongue.  It's winter and five degrees outside.  The heat is on full-blast.

Despite this (because of this?) I'm feeling almost chipper.  I enjoy January in spite of itself.  It's a knuckling and bucking down time, a span in which the ordinary business of eating and exercising and keeping head and home and heart together feels missional.

There is so much wrong with the world.  Yet despite that (because of it?) we keep on making promises to ourselves and to one another.  The breakage comes later.  In February, perhaps, with its tropical lilt.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

New Year

I cannot believe how long I've been keeping this blog.  And how short a span it's seemed.  All those quotidian observations about time. 

Friday, December 30, 2016

Year's End

I feel the downslope now, the acceleration of sorrow.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Quantz

I mess around with really old art for my living (or at least the majority of it). 

It's not something I think about very much.  There just isn't much immediate utility to pondering the fact that somebody, some 400-500 years ago, crafted whatever it is I'm trying to give shape to, analyze, appreciate, or teach.

But occasionally I see it.  Every so often I glimpse, across that gulf of steam and sweat and electricity and plague and other things- bobbleheads, fins on cars, crumpets,- the human on the other side.

And so today, Christmas Eve, as the dark rolls in, I'm reading through some Quantz.  Johann Joachim was a grinch.  A crabby man who enjoyed not only finding fault, but trumpeting it.  But he wrote some pretty music and now, centuries and centuries later, I stand in front of my music stand and play it. 

I don't wonder what he would think.  I've read his diatribes.  I'm a woman.  I'm wearing pants.  I'm musically flighty with a taste for the overwrought. He would disapprove.

And yet-  there is probably no one else in this whole hill-bound, landlocked state -no one else in this wide, wild country- puzzling out this particular Quantz this particular hour.  Just me and him and the dark and whatever light we can bring.

That's something.