Now Playing: “Take the Money and Run,” Steve Miller Band 

This week, Word Raccoon managed to get some money refunded. I am very proud of her.

First were a couple of smaller fees she had been told she would not be charged. One was $25, another $17.50. She didn’t like to complain, but she asked about them anyway. They were politely refunded.

(I’d have taken the hit, but WR wouldn’t hear of it.)

Even better, that trash panda of mine emailed a company that had charged her nearly $300 without prior notice. She had to go up the chain, but she managed to get that refunded too. All of it.

(Should I even mention this happened a few months ago with another company? They listened to her kind of reasoning too for, also, close to $300. I’m grateful to my alter-writing ego for her polite assertiveness.)

That’ll cover a lot of poetry submission fees.

I picked up maybe five slightly dented poem ideas that I fashioned into drafts yesterday:
unframed, dusty,
one brutally feminist,
one a tad blasphemous, but not for shock value. That’s cheap; I don’t do that. 

Did you ever read an essay on creativity and feel like it was good but the information was opinion, not Truth? Truth inevitably fires up my writing synapses and I want to bounce ideas against it. Opinions stated as Truth, however valid, I don’t know…not only bore me but make me wary of a source if they’re stated as truth. Which isn’t fair because I don’t know why I think I’m the arbiter of Truth. I’m not. But I know it when I hear it. And I know when I’m not hearing it. 

I enjoy writing Truth because yes, I believe in nuance but also, there is something bedrock beneath nuance. Sometimes “nuance” is an excuse. That’s a whole essay waiting to be written on its own, maybe? 

The leaves on the ground are a vibe, a rave of scent and sound. I can smell them through the window. Do they have a scent before they hit the ground? They must, right? I think I’ll test it out later. Because I always associated that scent with decay, but can the leaves be said to be decaying on the tree when they change color? I mean…maybe? Not sure it matters unless we’re writing a poem and facts and truth are not the same, right? 

And this is too much before the sun is even truly up, but I couldn’t wait to come outdoors and write to these sweet lanterns and admire the neighbor’s tree with its annual feast of golden yellow as the sun reveals it. Just as I sat down, I heard the sound of fire as I glanced at the flickering lanterns, except it was rain and I was happy until I heard my neighbor’s door open and realized she’d have to walk out into the rain to get to her car. She probably had an umbrella. I didn’t look her way. 

As for my café of choice and their “renovations”? Unless they’re hiding in the kitchen, they’re nonexistent.

They did hire a new manager.
But my favorite barista is gone.
They changed the hours.
They took away Saturdays.

Oh well.

This afternoon, I will visit the rheumatologist for the first time to find out what the hell is going on. WR insists I demand answers, so here’s hoping. I have a list of questions and show and tell at the end of my hand. 

In between, poems to format and submissions to consider. Reviews to write, laundry to fold.

Unless, you know, I just write instead. Tempting. 

Maybe all of this was a lot and I’m sure it will end up only lightly edited but it’s beginning to get lighter out (except the rain is keeping it darker) and I want this missive to go out in the universe like a tight hug on a rainy day. 

Why does my throat suddenly feel tight?