I’m using any excuse to sit on the porch this Saturday afternoon, even though it’s raining. There’s no lightning, and it’s enclosed, so I’m good.
Word Raccoon is always raving about the light out here. She’s not wrong.
We could be reading.
We could be writing.
We might.
But also, we are listening to YouTube videos while we contemplate what we’re wearing for going out tonight. WR insists on her Coke Zero earrings.
We are wondering if anyone will notice if we hunch over our Notes app tonight and write poems to the music.
We cannot drink because of the arthritis med.
We are not in the mood for bar food.
(Except maybe fries.)
Our medicine has been changed and hasn’t really kicked in yet, so can we dance? Possibly(probably) not.
Today’s podcast of interest: I listened to the hosts of The Secret Life of Books discussing literary honeymoons and how they never turn out happy. I’d never considered them. It was a fascinating conversation.
Early this morning we wrote a poem based on the group prompt. We will not be sharing the poem here, but it was more foundational (?) than I expected.
We also submitted to two places before cleaning house so we wouldn’t feel as if were were totally out of the submission business.
The tulips are fully bloomed now. Such pretty red flowers swaying in the wind, glistening with raindrops. We have some yellow ones indoors, and I’m planning to save the bulbs to plant in the fall.
The outdoors ones always feel a little suddenly open to me, like no matter how much attention I try to pay to them, I arrive at a performance already in progress. I wish they would stay where I could see them everyday.
When Word Raccoon likes something, she maybe likes it too much. She wants to fill her arms with blooms.
Honestly? Same.
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