Dear Reader,
The sun only woke after I went into its bedroom multiple times this morning, pulling on its big toe. As soon as it finally rubbed its eyes and stood up this afternoon, Word Raccoon grabbed both of my hand and the laptop and rushed outdoors.
I, meanwhile, am trying to balance the part of my brain that insists I should be doing all of the things at once. You know: Read. Submit poetry. Clean the refrigerator. Solve literature for X and Y.
Today I decided I was not in the mood for deadlines, so I only looked at places on Duosuma without them. Word Raccoon approved. I ended up submitting poetry to three places, which feels like quite an achievement for a crowded week.
I walked to the library to pick up a book I had on hold and also found a book of Somerset Maugham’s writings in the free bin, which felt very “feed a stray author and he follows you home.” I’m not mad about it.
I also joked with the library clerk that it always has to be intellectual him there when I am picking up my less-than-literary books.
Reader, why do I suddenly become a twelve-year-old trying to explain herself whenever someone sees me carrying both Somerset Maugham seriousness and something with a celebrity cover? Word Raccoon says all books are valid and has threatened to bite literary snobbery directly on the ankle.
And for the record, the clerk, not being a literary snob, defended my choice. It’s a celebrity memoir that WR insisted on, and since I am about to feed her Somerset Maugham, I suppose she deserves some lighter fare. (Okay, fine, I probably won’t start on the former just yet. But I’m so tempted. I remember once telling someone that while I adore Somerset Maugham’s fiction, I wish I could just sit and let him talk at me. I’d just take notes. The way he writes about art!)
At home, I oiled the pocket door to the music room because it squeaked every time it opened and WR was threatening to rip it off its…well, I can’t say hinges, can I? Off its track? The screen door qualified and received the same treatment. Both are now silent.
Word Raccoon has since been stalking through the house in coveralls with the can of oil like a tiny maintenance worker daring anything else to squeak in her presence.
The funny thing is that my brain feels absolutely afire lately with poems, projects, furniture ideas, books, submission plans, work, and approximately twelve thousand thoughts about art and life and whether cabbage can become lunch if you put eggs in it. (It can, by the way. Surprisingly good. Don’t forget the sesame seeds.)
WR and I feel like we are on some strange game show where it’s ready, set, go! She did take screenshots of phrases that she very much thinks need to become poems while reading today, and if there is time before dinner, I will oblige her. Or after. These particular lines aren’t going away any time soon.
One of the phrases was “the weather of the heart.” That just smells like a poem.
Another, “provider of moonbeams.” I want that poem in my ears, now! (Except it’s not a poem yet. Give my writing sidekick time.) Can you even with that?
Then this: “self-appointed inspector of snowstorms.” That one made us giggle with delight. It could be so much fun if it were built out, am I right?
Not every day has to become a gladiator match against time itself, WR. Some days are for reading while the sky picks a mood and Word Raccoon patrols the hallways for avoidable noises.
Meanwhile, I am contemplating gathering items to bake German chocolate cupcakes while admiring the sunny view as it flies by.
Cupcakes and tons of strong coffee,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 