Now Playing: “Because the Night” – Patti Smith

This morning, I was thinking about my grown children, before they were grown. Something about the chill in the house reminded me of weekends at the cabin we used to rent on the lake.

I grabbed my favorite mug and filled it with tea and came outdoors.

I’m also tender with a poem I wrote last night that won’t quit gnawing at me.

Across the street, a father and daughter (a girl of maybe 6? Barefooted, blue pjs) walked hand in hand in the yard, she, wobbling a bit, leaning forward, still seeming fresh to life and I can’t quit crying long enough to write this.

Too soon he backed towards the car, nearer, farther away. He returned to her and led her indoors. It seemed like he couldn’t bear to leave.

When I tell you I sobbed, I mean literally. I wish I could see clearly to write this even now.

I can tell it’s only been a week since we buried my mother. And that’s all I can write about that today.

Someone has turned my settings to sob, and I can only be grateful to be alone at the moment. I’m just as exasperated and irritated by it as you are, Herbert.

Okay, that’s just enough anger to bring me up a level. Perfect. (I didn’t ask for the anger. It just came. But who’s working the soundboard? I don’t remember asking anyone to.)

Oh. Good morning, Word Raccoon. Of course.  

It was the birds, too, along with the temperature, that took me back so far in time. “Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.”

Same, Billy, Same.

For a minute, seeing the neighbors I felt like Cybill Shepherd in Texasville when she’s watching the kids of her boyfriend from youth play after she’s lost her son in a tragic accident and she just breaks down to see them so joyful, so alive on their bikes, chasing the dog. I think that’s the moment when she breathes deeply and allows sorrow to do its work after she has snarked most of the movie. It’s one of my favorites, though it’s difficult to get ahold of a copy.

Deep breaths. And now…3,2…

This morning, I was mere seconds away from snagging a Kate Spade purse to review. If only I had woken up a bit sooner. Eh, what are ya gonna do?

I did snag a white robe with a pretty rose pattern scattered across it. Pity the Fool (my gold robe) is giving me side eye over it, but it ought to know by now it has no true competition.

Word Raccoon is displeased. I promised her poetry yesterday before Hubby’s show. The Huntington bookstore was CLOSED. I saw lots of neat cars, including a RED MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE (I owned one once, too, but mine was from the 90’s. Still pretty sweet. Still pretty muscly. Wait, maybe I saw that car as we were leaving our town. Either way, I saw it.)

But alas, no poetry.

WR folded her arms when we returned to the beer tent and took out a toothpick when I asked her to be cool. She shrugged, pulled off her cape, and ordered a beer.

Then, since, you know, we were at the beer tent two hours early (setup is something not enough wannabe musicians consider), she proceeded to nearly run the battery down on my phone writing poetry with the notes app.

I don’t know how she got into such a bad habit to begin with, but that’s how she writes.

I fear for my safety if I don’t take her to get some poetry to read this morning. I’ve offered her online poetry to read, but that little contradiction in a POETRY t-shirt says that’s not the same. She wants a book she can hold in her hands. She wants to underline words that make her want to pull the page out and eat it.

On the swag table last night, she found sunglasses that she insisted on wearing inside the beer tent. She danced gleefully, accepted the nomination of “my favorite rocker” from a young friend. WR wanted a crown then but made do with a swag sun visor.

Enough about WR’s antics. She genuinely had a good time and loved what the live music thundered through her writing. Checkered Past rules. But she might be biased.

There is that poem she wrote early on in the evening, however. The one that will not leave her alone, not even this morning. Which is probably why she was sobbing into her hot tea to begin with.

She wrote other poems before the party started.

–Well, Looky Here

–No Takie Backsies

–Midwest Daughter

–Ancient, Holy Things (DO NOT TOUCH). That’s the one I’m contemplating posting all by itself and running away from like it’s a firecracker. I can’t decide if sharing it preserves its holiness or sullies it.

–Whispering Into Someone’s Voicemail at 2 am. (It’s a vibe, not the truth.)

— a three-line stub beginning with “licking ectoplasm off silver spoons.” That one might have been written after a few sips of beer.

–Another untitled one which ends “Please send oxygen.”

–Hot for Creature (Tenderer than it sounds and an obvious Van Halen rip-off.)

— There’s a longer one about a haunted house with a line that shocked and delighted me both. I swear I write without a net and in this case I’m not sure that’s ok. (So maybe no one else would like the line, but I do.)

WR didn’t find others’ poetry last night, but she did find some pretty cool murals walking around Huntington. Not the murals. Her.

I see my simplistic word choices here today (neat, pretty, cool, great, interesting) and I should tell you that my thesaurus is in the shop. Psychoanalyze that or not as you please.

It was a great, full crowd, the band slayed (as always), no one asked for “Free Bird” (whew) and the brats were good, too, just not as good as the music.

I’m going indoors now to make some avocado toast with sliced tomatoes, nerd baes.

P.S. WR was eye-rolling a famous lit journal this morning over a toned-down word it used in its poem of the day. She says it makes it seem like the author is fearful of the human body. It pulls you plumb out of the poem.  “JUST SAY THE WORD!” she’s yelling.

I was floored. “You’re a baby poet. How dare you….” but I don’t disagree with her.

Word Raccoon, go eat your breakfast. This is not your keyboard today.

P.S.S. An acquaintance just walked past reading while she strolls. I was so charmed I just had to fling the door open and comment “I approve!”