June 26:
I’m annoyed with my lack
of hand cleaner today, holding onto the door handle microbes with baited
breath. Why does Jean go on break at such an inconvenient time?
Fairy tales, horror, and
the pastoral add up to eco-horror in our view, but does it matter? Make the
message resonate more clearly? I continue to be skeptical about it all, and I’m
tired of writing in generalities, too.
June 27:
People wait for the
library to open here, sitting on a shady bench or listening to Leonard Skinnard
in a pick-up with a Rebel Flag bumper sticker while librarians fresh from the
shower slick back their hair and sneak in the back door.
Walmart at midnight
brings out the recluses, pajama-clad and half-washed, like summer children
gutter running after a rainstorm, but morning gathers them outside a library,
waiting for fresh-showered librarians to open the door.
June 28:
Some caterpillars
may gorge themselves on
parsley
Swallow butterflies
My mother’s blog offers a
“circle of life” from raised bed gardens to parsley-eating Black Swallow
Caterpillars; her mother
carried a birdcage and a newspaper filled with catfish across the river.
June 29:
Give me a concrete
image—an experience, a scenario, a setting full of meaning, like those green
leaves out the window waving at the class. Do they want to come in and write,
or are they inviting us to go out and play?
June 30:
They found light in a
darkroom in 1962, shining out of rocks in a river bed or the top three windows
in a Midwest farmhouse or that slurry pond at the bottom of a strip mine,
centering print, set, and frame on a white wall.
July 1:
Cashews and wine, salt
and mildly sweet snack for a 95 percent vegan, eating honey in my bread dough,
Halo Top ice cream, and an occasional egg.
July 2:
My head hums like rain on
the porch roof, rubber fading each drop into a pianissimo murmur, exchanges
without subtitles in a Sundance movie, their gaps remaining until it clears.
July 3:
The perfect sense, touch
as the movie tells us? Today I smell mowed grass, a green spring after the last
snow, the crunch of sneakers across white crust and that lone crocus beside an icy
downspout.
July 4:
Dolly hides in her crate beside
a vent of air.
What else is there to say
about this Independence Day?
July 5:
Zucchini on the vines, a
joke for our local paper, gifts for the neighbors when they start to overflow,
memories of vegetable dinners with tomatoes and onions, a pot of beans and
potatoes, and corn on the cob.
July 6:
I think I nearly became a
vegetarian in Michigan after Dr. Brown had to pull an abscessed tooth and fill
eight cavities. All I wanted to eat were mashed potatoes and apple sauce,
comfort foods I still crave during holidays.
July 7:
Joe’s father owned a
butcher shop and still loves the smell of meat. I hold my nose. He would cringe
to know I disliked meat so much I smothered sausages and roast beef in ketchup.
July 8:
The only meat I ever
craved was actually seafood, scallops and lobster to be exact, a special treat
my mother made in Ohio after we all grew up and left or on that Alaska cruise
my ex-mother-in-law bought us when we moved.
July 9:
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