Now playing: Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson. Because sometimes you need music that whispers, even if every song sounds pretty much the same and his music is like a warm hoodie for your brain and if you need more of an explanation you just haven’t heard his music ever. And don’t fight me on this because you will not win. This is function over form.

And okay, yes, he does sneak in a “little lady” that makes Word Raccoon want to toss a mango at his head, but we forgive him. (Mostly.)

It’s one of those rain-washed days when the café porch plan gets traded for the shelter of my own little sunporch. And honestly? Not a bad swap. The rain is doing its thing, and I’m doing mine: sipping, writing, and watching the world blur at the edges and the traffic drift by as people look for garage sales. I had forgotten it was the weekend for those in our town. Thank you, no thank. I am not in the mood. Unless you see one with books of poetry?

Porch writing from home means getting to wear what I call my comfy cozies, although when I was going to put on a plain blue shirt, Word Raccoon crossed her arms until I chose the “pretty one” with flowers on it. She knows how picky I am about patterns, but I agree with her on this one.

Yesterday things that made Word Raccoon smile:

A hilarious Youtube short of John Green (he likes art too!) looking at paintings and asking an important question: “Have these artists ever seen a baby?”

I love that he dares question art. We can (should) do that, you know? BTW, the man is a supporter of modern art as well. He says it’s one of the best things about having some book money, and I appreciate that he tries to help newbie artists.

I know I’ve been mentioning him a lot lately, but hey, he keeps showing up in my feed. I appreciate that in an algorithm.

And here’s another fun rainy-day video for you of an art restorer, Julian Baumgartner out of Chicago trying to rescue a painting someone else “saved” by (ugh) mounting it onto foam board. Tear emoji, tear emoji…on repeat.

Do not sleep on his videos. Although TBH, he was making Word Raccoon very nervous with this particular restoration. He applied something to dissolve the foam board, and I was fast forwarding because Word Raccoon was on top of my head, digging her claws in, terrified the man was going to ruin this previously “restored” painting.

He didn’t. Whew.

Yesterday, after the tornado watch (Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always secretly wished I could be swept up in a tornado that didn’t hurt anything or anyone. Just let me fly along with it for a bit. What? Am I the only one who watched Twister?) ruined my plans for writing elsewhere in the evening, I waited out the storm and came out here and wrote.

The porch lights had been fooled by the weather and were already lit in the later afternoon. In the alley, repairmen spoke back and forth in what I think was Polish. It was comforting.

Last night the poetry was a little better, more rounded, more topics than just a mood board.

• Dream State (I say houdini’ed in it and you tell me if I can get by with that.)
• Spontaneous Generation, Batman!
• It Lives Apart
• Ring after Ring (about a fallen tree)
• Atomic Bond
• You Smell like Yesterday (Not that there’s anything Wrong with That!)

The rain apparently brings out the poet in me, so here’s a little piece that arrived today direct from the produce department. This is what happens when you overbuy fruit. My poem’s freshly squeezed this morning, so be kind. It doesn’t even know what it means, but Word Raccoon is covering her eyes, so I’m concerned.

I also wrote another poem this morning that is untitled but is about the problem of sentimentality in art. Spoiler: sentimentality buries the truth and nuance.

And just now, one called “Playing Footsie with Boundaries.”

What To Do About The Mangoes

There you are,
Still in your produce bag
With your judgy green and
Red skin, indignant
That I dare leave you
To rot in your splotchy
Rind,
In your leaning-towards-spicy
Deliciousness, the juice inside

Begging for a bite to

Release it.

Well, if I have to bear it,
So do you.
Actually, I think it’s
On you.
After all, I’ve been
Ripe
For ages too.

But

I’m not bitter at our
Tropical dreams
Gone nowhere.

No worries at all.
We can just refill
The cart and

Reload the drawer.

You start.

You’ve got longer arms.

Ah, to sweet fruit restocking, friends, and to poetry-filled days. Although I’m thinking I’d prefer to write on my novel today. I just fell asleep over my keyboard. That’s not promising.