Now Playing: Don’t Fade Out by Cut Worms

It is an odd feeling to go from TV-cannot-hold-my-attention all summer to watching all the things. I figured today would be like that, as a recovery day, and that’s exactly what it was. 

Though recover from what, I’d like to know. WR says telling us to take it easy today is asinine, and yet I noticed she didn’t complain about watching the rest of SEASON TWO!! of The Chicken Sisters!

(BTW, I didn’t time it right. Had I waited a few more days before beginning the trial, I could’ve finished the season. There’s only one to go, but my free trial ends Friday, just before they are due to put out the last one…)

The cortisone shot stung a little this morning, hurt a little, but now I’m fine. Almost fine. I will be fine. It takes a couple of days, apparently, for it to take full effect. Let’s go!

Anyway, WR began writing a poem this morning, “Strawberry Jam,” inspired by Chicken Sisters. It’s skeletal at the moment, but what of it exists makes my heart happy…it makes me want to handpick the fruit, heat it with lemon and sugar, and put it in those gorgeous quilted jars with the shiny bands for someone who would enjoy it. It wouldn’t be an effort. It would be a pleasure. 

(I made a strawberry drizzle for my mom’s angel food cake last year, and it was so easy. That’s next door to jam, isn’t it?)

As Word Raccoon was mulling strawberry jam and whether or not making it would suit her temperament, she said, “Funny, isn’t it, how some people seem to know who we are before we do? And how we start to see ourselves more clearly when they name something we didn’t think was worth noticing. And when they do, we say, ‘Oh, that old thing?’ But then we hold it up to the light after they leave and pay attention to the design we hadn’t seen before.” 

Sometimes it’s things we’ve buried because we weren’t “supposed” to enjoy those simple delights.

Asking a seeing heart to unsee is cruelty, I’ve come to believe, but only because I’ve also seen that sight treated as a gift.

Write on, WR! I want to know more, but please tell me you’re making biscuits, too, love. 

I’m back on my porch, writing, because the doctor didn’t say I couldn’t write. 

A writer friend sent me a card today. He couldn’t have known the timing would be perfect, but it was. His note? Precious. I love getting physical cards; almost no one sends snail mail anymore, and I truly appreciate it.

Okay, I did not give in and buy FJM tickets, but I did sign up to get a day-before notice IF there are any tickets left…

Now hear this! I just discovered that an artist named Cut Worms is opening for Our Father…laugh if you want, but I was not familiar with CW, and after listening to him, I’m sold! (King Tuff opened for Father John Misty when we heard him in Indy in 2018, and that was definitely a two-fer well worth it! I was already a fan of King Tuff.) 

Cut Worms kinda sounds like Brian Wilson/earnest 60’s songs the radio forgot. It’s like songs you almost know the lyrics too. I find it charming, and I always admire lyric-forward tunes. 

I think I’ve just made it more difficult to resist this show. 

A journal’s submission window was a few days from closing, I noticed last night, so I gathered a packet and was pleased with it, because these are not easy-to-place little oddballs. Alas, when I clicked to send I received notice that their cap had been met! 

Instead, I gathered another, different band of rascals and sent them out. 

Do most poets write all over the map? From lyrical to narrative to philosophical rants to spicy little ditties…I don’t force form. I don’t restrict my mind or hand. I am not trying to bend the muse. I am trying to appreciate it for what it is, to enjoy the presence. 

Now I’m stuck on this: finish “Strawberry Jam” or…

Oh no. I feel that kinda almost weepy feeling that says I need to write poetry. I knew better than to write about the muse. I alternate between missing it when it’s not here to writing as if I am possessed when I think of it….

WR says that’s ok…she can work with that. 

She also whispered something about how the right kind of gaze can make even an ordinary picture look book-jacket ready. But muses don’t have book jackets. Probably. Right?

In any case, it is not considered best practices to kiss the screen.

I’ve done it now. She’s tossing my AirPods case and anything else she can grab off my writing table, daring me to tell her what to and not to kiss.

Fine, WR, you take the wheel. You’re going to anyway.

P.S. She did and has now written “Second Drawer, Lefthand Side” and I can see a suite of themed poems coming up and honestly, I don’t think I’m up to it tonight. (Monday.) We’ll see.