I brought Richard Hugo’s The Triggering Town to the beach. I’d never read it, and what better time? A classic, or so I’d been told, a book about the poetics of place. (The title kinda tells us that.)
I read it under a blue-and-white cabana, spreading the pages with delight. Nodding along. The first page brought me to tears.
And then someone pulled a man from the lake.
Later, at the hotel, I wrote a poem. (I’ve tried writing this in prose, but the words won’t stay put.)
White Lake Fish after Richard Hugo
Richard Hugo says not to choose the topic, not to write a poem because it feels like it should be written.
But has he ever been on a beach when a man’s body is fished from the lake, served on a paddle board, and rushed away in an ambulance?
Has he sat, stunned, unsure: Life? Death?
Was it a final departure or a resurrection, and why are the boats…
Oh God, are they searching?
Or just patrolling?
Visions of a child, dragged under, of a man who tried to save her. No.
No?
No one’s saying.
A tent rises and falls, opens and closes, waving, mawing, something else hungry denied (we hope, both) today.
My mother, her nose looped with the oxygen cannula, gasped like that, mouth wide for her eternal breath last month.
I stare at my pale legs.
White.
Forgive me if I skip some time in my story here.
Back at the hotel, Hugo’s book stared up at me like nothing had happened.
So I took him to bed with me, which led to arguing with him, which wasn’t entirely fair. I might have had a better experience reading him if I hadn’t just witnessed what I had.
Even still, his voice was charming, authoritative, often wry. He writes like an orator, full of clever asides, and I didn’t mind it.
(Word Raccoon says she has no idea about those.)
He preached the gospel of place in poetry, and I was ready to say amen. He wrote of craft, of not listening to anyone if their advice didn’t serve your process. Another amen.
I don’t let people touch my writing unless I trust them. Even then, I only revise with their advice if it actually makes the piece stronger. Unless I know you’re better with my work than I am, which is rare, duckies, then I yield. I might curse inside, but I yield.
Still, as I kept reading Hugo, I noticed the absences.
Maybe I was spoiling for a fight to relieve the sorrow clogging my chest.
So I wrote another poem.
While I won’t give away its premise (or title), I’ll say this: the women in Hugo’s book fall into a few predictable types. Wives. “Whores,” he calls some. The one teacher who didn’t shame a teenage boy for writing about a bordello he fled in fear.
There. I did just give away a chunk. I guess that’s okay.
Word Raccoon is shooting a very unladylike finger up at Hugo right now, and I’m not going to stop her because I don’t want her to be a lady, I want her to be real and take no BS.
A certain someone near me when I was reading the book made the mistake, when I vented, of starting to say, “He was of his time.”
Word Raccoon shut that shit down. Fast.
Women can say that. Men? Absolutely not.
And while we’re here: if a man in the ’60s or ’70s chose not to be a condescending ass, was that really such a notable miracle?
Oh, thank you, kind sir, for noticing I am a human being and not just a vessel for your…
Anyway.
I’m not saying Hugo is evil. I’m not even saying he’s beyond redemption. To be honest, I wasn’t as pissed at him for his casual erasure of women as I probably should have been, because I was curled on a hotel bed trying to erase the image of what happened on the beach from my mind.
It was one pretentious line that made me kick him out of my bed. If you present yourself as the poet who notices what others don’t, Hugo, and then drop a line that mostly says, look how tender I am for noticing, and it ends up highlighting your own damn misogyny? That breaks the spell.
Without saying it, you were all, “Oh, see, I asked the question no one else asked.” Newsflash: I would have asked that question, Richard. Out of genuine curiosity. Not to signal my sensitivity.
I know you were making a point. But in context? It was dehumanizing, budro. (I’m sorry I can’t share the passage, but my poem speaks for it. Sharing both would ruin the effect.)
I squirm writing this, because I did find many of his tips helpful. And you know when you’re reading something and you keep saying “yes” instead of attacking it with red ink? Yeah. That.
When I’m most frightened and annoyed, I fight on the page. So I wrote.
I had to write White Lake Fish. Then the next one about him. Not because I thought Fish was a “worthy” topic. He would’ve scolded me for picking it because it was “intense” or “interesting.”
But I wrote it because if I didn’t, it would have wriggled in me and done damage.
So maybe don’t tell people what they should or shouldn’t write with one breath, and then tell them not to listen to you with the next.
Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of teaching writing?
That’s not my central argument here.
Is it?
I feel judged by a dead guy. The poet. I’m judging myself.
But I swear, I didn’t write the poem to be dramatic. I wrote it because I had to.
Even now, thinking of the man on the board, my stomach knots.
We’re going to the cemetery tomorrow to weed my mother’s grave.
And I’m pressing up against my (other, unshared) poem’s title again by saying this much, but this still haunts me in a way even highly targeted internet searches can’t resolve:
No one ever said what happened to the man on the beach.
Friday night, August 1, Barry and I found ourselves at the Wunderkammer Company in Fort Wayne, Indiana, breathing in incense and music. The lights were low, the ceiling high, and the air hung full of reverence. We had come to hear Emma Swift.
But in a way, this story started years ago. Before Emma’s pandemic-era livestreams with her husband, Robyn Hitchcock, Barry first followed his music. Robyn, for the uninitiated, is a cult hero of British psychedelic and post-punk rock, known for fronting The Soft Boys in the late seventies and The Egyptians through the eighties and early nineties, before moving on to an impressive solo career. He is the kind of songwriter who makes other songwriters feel both inspired and slightly afraid.
Back in 2017, we went to see Robyn play a solo show in Indianapolis at the White Rabbit Cabaret. Setlist here. Barry introduced himself and Robyn finished Barry’s name. That is what social media does for you nowadays. The intimacy of art, met halfway by the strange recognition of the digital age.
Also, that night Robyn sang my favorite song of his: “My Wife and My Dead Wife.” Not to mention playing “Virginia Woolf.” That made my evening.
It was Barry who introduced me to Emma Swift’s music, too. I remember hearing her voice waft out of his music room one afternoon. Dylan’s achingly good lyrics carried on a voice that stopped me with its iridescence, its earnestness. Arresting. Unforgettable.
The album was Blonde on the Tracks, and I was hooked.
During lockdown, Emma and Robyn began livestreaming concerts from their Nashville home, and we “attended” those regularly, grateful for their music, their chemistry, their warmth.
One landed on Barry’s birthday and Emma wished Barry a happy birthday when I snuck a note in the comments saying it was.
And now, years later, we were second row at Wunderkammer Gallery, close enough to see the earnest look on her face as she sang, not tempted to close her eyes as some singers might be, at least not often.
The lighting was weird. My hair was rebellious. But I met Emma Swift and she asked about my writing, and I’ll be riding that joy for days. Also, Word Raccoon demands we all wear polka dots at live shows now. Non-negotiable. (See paragraph below about what Emma was wearing.)
The space itself was magic. Incense-thick, lit softly, with high open ceilings and a massive steel girder overhead like a spine. It felt like a place built for spellwork and sound. Word Raccoon, for one, approved.
The entryway ceiling was decked in crochet, as if a hippy van had gone upside down and stuck.
The night’s set was a haunting mix of old and new. Songs from Blonde on the Tracks and previews from her upcoming album The Resurrection Game, due out September 12 on Tiny Ghost Records. We heard Dylan reimagined with clarity and ache, and we heard something altogether her own. Born from breakdown, from from resurrection.
Her covers of “I Contain Multitudes” as well as “Queen Jane Approximately” were outstanding. And her own “Catholic Girls are Easy” was haunting, lovely, and a little funny. It’s a given it’s irreverent, right?
The song that moved me the most was her “No Happy Endings.” The line, “I’ve never done things by half measures” sounded like a certain WR over here.
Emma’s new work is raw, radiant, and rooted in survival, something she talks about on her website when she mentions a seven-week breakdown which required hospitalization.
It could be said her work is salvific in multiple ways. (I know, the word is likely overused, but dammit, it fits here. Read on.)
With this new album, she wanted to create something gorgeous from what she went through.
She did.
Enchanting, absorbing…I don’t know what all to say except I am so happy to have heard her.
She wore a classic long-sleeved black blouse with an orange polka dotted mini over black hose and heeled ankle boots. So cute.
She moves youthfully: hands at sides when not holding a mic, leans, her blonde hair draping itself beautifully over her arm.
While her music was transporting, there was something incredibly honest and open about her performance that elevated it beyond even her voice. (And she has quite a voice!)
Her guitarist, Rick Lollar, newly married and away from home, played with impeccable style and soul. I told him he was sharply dressed, because he was. (A crisp black button down, cuffed jeans, black leather shoes, I think.)
His playing was top notch as well.
Barry chatted with him while I wandered the gallery, incense curling through the air, admiring paintings that did not mind being weird and wonderful.
Barry and Rick, Emma lost in the. light. Barry and Rick talked side by side for quite a while; this was right before we left.. There are better pictures but I don’t have them just now. Do note the ceiling, please!
Emma asked how my writing was going. I was happily stunned she had asked. When Barry said I have been writing poetry these days, I found myself saying simply, “We lost my mother.”
She placed her hand gently on my arm. “That’ll do it,” she said.
It was artist shorthand, what I said, and her response. The perfect exchange. Nothing wasted. All feeling.
Did I mention Emma sent me a photo privately of my first novel and her stuffed animal. I can’t remember the name of it now, but a lobster I think, during the pandemic? She bought my novel, y’all! AND let me know it.
She asked about my writing at HER show!
I was also blown away that she knew who we were without having to tell her Friday.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” she said.
Now that’s the way to be greeted, though so unexpected. Word Raccoon preened.
We were there for the ache and balm of live music, and that’s what we received. The sense that art, even now, even again, can stir the sludge in the soul.
I’m so grateful for her presence so near our town. It was a night to remember.
Word Raccoon insists on having the last word. She has been hunting for polka dotted everything online since Friday, when she watched Emma, absorbed the paintings behind her, and let the music rattle something loose in her.
She has not written whatever that might be yet, but last night she was singing that song that causes her heart to squeeze.
And we all know that poetry and song lyrics are kissing cousins, don’t we?
Want to hear Emma’s music? Maybe even buy her latest? Do, chickadee, do!
UPDATE: (WHICH HAPPENED EVEN BEFORE I POSTED THIS, BUT I LIKED THAT PART OF THE POST SO I LEFT IT: WHEN DH HEARD I WANTED RID OF THE BOXES OF MADNESS, HE GOT OUT HIS HANDTRUCK AND PUT IT ALL IN HIS VAN TO DONATE TO THE GOODWILL TOMORROW ON HIS WAY HOME FROM WORK! DONE AND DONE!! I’VE ALREADY BEEN SWINGING WHILE SINGING. YAY!!)
This is going to be a boring post. It’s probably more for me than anyone else, a little guide to “how to get back to a fully functioning version of yourself.”
Many weeks (though not for a minute) I make lists of what needs to be done, what I want to do, what I would ideally do, what I could do if Word Raccoon would quit howling at lightning bugs.
(Shhh…it’s Sunday morning and I’m eating Greek yogurt with walnuts without her on the porch. I don’t want her to wake up until I’ve had a chance to make plans. Odds are, she will obliterate my plans like the feral animal she is, but I can try, right?)
She’s not fooling me. I know she’s just waiting until the ibuprofen kicks in and my fingers loosen up, then she’s going to take over the keyboard.
So this is the play, lovies: we return to Monday Hour One. Remember that? Make a huge list of what you need/want to do and then fit in the stuff you want to do first.
Word Raccoon always wants to write. (Except when she doesn’t, but lately? Not a problem. Now what she wants to write? Maybe an issue.) So writing goes on the calendar first.
Then comes everything else, in what I call the “Function Like a Human” Shuffle. This week, I’m calling the whole thing:
The Week I Get My Shit Together (Definitely Maybe Edition)
Because we’ve been here before. And we’re doing it again. With flair. We’re following Dana K. White’s wise “Progress Not Perfection” motto. That’s a tough lesson for Word Raccoons who are used to endless revisions.
Here’s the (semi) plan, friends. I’m hoping it sticks.
But first, gloriously off topic, which is WR’s way: Platonic is coming back in 4 more days to Apple TV+!! Word Raccoon and I LOVE that show!
Creative Stuff
Write every day. It can be a blog post, a poem, a one-line manifesto. Doesn’t matter.
Finally write that blog-essay-thing about Richard Hugo that’s been knocking around the inside of my skull like a ghost with a literary agenda.
Write a blog post about seeing Emma Swift perform Friday night. She was luminous. Smart. Tender. Her performance of I Contain Multitudes cracked something open in me. It felt like being trusted with the sacred. I want to write about it before the feeling calcifies into “just another Friday.”
Organize my poems so they’re not scattered across fourteen folders. Consider printing them and creating a binder of them, but feel too vulnerable and decide no.
Decide what my poems want from me and vice versa. See if we can make that happen.
Collate the Sears poems, write a list of others I’d like to write. They feel “next.”
Home Stuff
Unload the dishwasher, load as needed, do laundry including towels, clean the upstairs bathroom, pick up the porch. These are the regulars. They mostly get done. But I want to get ahead of them this week, before the vague panic sets in that something somewhere has been neglected and is now growing mold (not really!) and/or resentment.
Also on the docket: deal with the “why is this still sitting here?” items (looking at you, pile by the stairs).
Order groceries. Know that the more veggies you order, the more likely you are to have something come up preventing you from cooking, prepping, and/or eating them this week. Also: look in the freezer before ordering. You do NOT need more chicken right now, hoss. And are we grilling this week, WR, or ?
Tackle the petty tyranny of annoying admin tasks. Loathe them. Do them anyway.
Reclaim the van from the depths of sweater clutter.
Every woman will understand this: even in the heat of summer, you bring a sweater everywhere, because air conditioning. You have a car-dedicated sweater, and one you bring with you. You end up leaving both in the vehicle. Repeat.
Your husband asks if they’re breeding in the back seat.
You suspect they are.
At this point, it’s less a vehicle and more a mobile knitwear colony.
Also: dust, vacuum the decluttered vessel.
Porch triage, which includes getting rid of:
A Pilates machine still in the box that looks like something you’d use to interrogate a Renaissance heretic. It’s currently blocking my swing, which is just criminal.
A giant sun umbrella I originally thought we needed for the back yard; apparently we “don’t”?? In any case, I want it off the porch, pronto. Word Raccoon needs room for ballet practice.
A cart and machine that go together, both new in box that are difficult to explain but currently impossible to ignore.
I’m this close to posting a giant “FREE PLEASE GOD JUST TAKE IT” sign and hauling EVERYTHING out to the road.
(This is what happens when you’re a reviewer and offered things you might or might not agree to review. The thrift shops love you. But this stuff’s too heavy to cart there and also, I’ve been on the fence about the pilates machine until now. I want to be able to read on my porch swing again, so bye bye!!)
Book Stack Reality Check
Skim the library books I checked out with wild optimism a couple of weeks ago, now stale.
Return the ones that do not spark joy or at least mild curiosity.
Read something for pleasure this week, even if I have to bribe myself with tea to sit still. Psst…I downloaded the newest Taylor Jenkins Reid, love, and I can’t even bring myself to read it though if there’s any book I’d want to read, it’s that. IDK why not…my brain is set to “burning to write” right now, I guess.
WR says that now that we’ve removed so much porch clutter, she spies a bookshelf that would LOVE to house a collection of poetry books. I have already told her NO, she may not move her bed outdoors.
I’m onto her sun-loving self.
She just wants to read Neruda to a passing birb.
Planning + Plotting (These should actually come first. Why are they this far down in the post? No one knows. WR refuses to let me move them. Yes, she’s awake and questioning my life choices. She says cleaning is BOOORRRIIINNNGGG!)
Look at my calendar. Pretend to be a grown-up.
Actually slot in the fun first, then fit in everything else around it.
Dream about a (maybe) Labor Day escape, maybe someplace with quiet, caffeine, and plenty of sun. Maybe sand for bonus points. Maybe bring home something new for my sun porch collection. Which, btw, now holds an empty 7.5 ounce Coke Zero can, because at the car dealership last week, I was indeed offered a tiny can, which now apparently has .5 ounces less than before?? Word Raccoon was not amused but liked the tiny can, so she hopes DH doesn’t mistake it for trash when he sees it on display. Then again, he knows me and Word Raccoon.
Extras for Gold Stars
The three non-regular home care items will earn extra credit points : the maybe porch overhaul, the not-just-desweatering van cleaning, and a modest shoe purge/org because those things are everywhere right now and TBH, Word Raccoon has a hard time deciding which to wear when there are so many in sight. She’s been leaning towards the glittery rhinestone clogs the past few days, which are cute but so heavy!
If I do all three, I will spend time swinging on the porch and reading. IF I get that terrible contraption out of here. (Any of you want to basically form a gym in your house? Because hey, I’ve got you. Let me just go inside…I have more.)
Outdoor Redemption Projects (Now that the heat is not trying to kill us all)
Clean that one wall’s siding at the back of the house that always looks like it’s auditioning for a mold documentary. I’ve never waited this late in the season to clean it.
Paint the trim and garage door. Maybe.
The Squirrel Feeder Ultimatum. I tried to put it up myself. I failed. Even with a stepladder, I’m too short. And I wasn’t gonna haul the big ladder out myself. (I’m right that a squirrel feeder shouldn’t be a mere three feet off the ground?) It’s either going up this week, or it’s going out to the street for anyone else to take FAR AWAY. NOW.
The squirrels are watching. I can feel their judgmental little eyes on me. I know which way they want this to break. Me too, squirrel babies.
But here’s the thing…with those things gone, I will suddenly notice that the porch windows need cleaning, and the porch needs dusting, and all of the china and glassware on it.
Then I will notice my frog prince sitting on the shelf and he will want me to write: poems, on my novel (oh wait, I still have a WIP??), whatever, and all bets are off. Domestic productivity? Gone.
Will it all happen? Honestly? Probably not exactly like this. But something will. And the something is enough.
Because the point isn’t perfection. It’s motion.
And because the longer I sit here this morning, the more I can feel Word Raccoon stirring. She’s eyeing the keyboard like it owes her money.
And frankly? I need her. Even if she chews the list and howls at cloud formations.
Maybe I should be ashamed that I prefer her antics to a highly organized shoe shelf. But nope.
Actually, I just need to invite someone over and I will go into hyper cleaning/decluttering mode.
Anyone fancy a cookout? I’ll make the elote. You can grill the burgers. Or maybe I will.
Word Raccoon can’t get her words to stand up straight today She tried a poem or two, but they laid down on the job
Then she wrote more flash fiction about those two doomed darlings
Bonnie and Clyde
who seem increasingly unstuck in time
which was amusing and alarming to write
because what do you do when the timeline won’t behave?
The words felt sideways She kept circling the phrase “my shape of love” It wouldn’t settle Wouldn’t stay put It wanted to haunt instead
There are days when writing poems feels like
chucking tiny pieces of her soul into the void
Today she doesn’t want to mosaic anything Today she doesn’t want to submit, flinging that clinging word stuff to anyone, anywhere, else Today she doesn’t want to “stay weird” thank you kindly to the off-map journal that said so Today she wants to…what?
Doesn’t matter.
Tonight, Word Raccoon wants to sing Not perform Not posture Not press her ear to the earth for answers
“Don’t Know Why” is playing the Norah Jones version she sang once barefoot
and maybe too earnestly at some little gig
no one remembers now though the rehearsal was recorded,
and she remembers belting the soul-jarring line
“You’ll be on my mind forever”
WR didn’t plan on getting trapped in a lyric but the song showed up tonight anyway
You know how it is Some songs have long shadows
I suppose I ought to invest in some ear plugs
Word Raccoon’s not planning on stopping singing any time soon;
Someone once told her she should keep singing
This is definitely not a poem
And you’re so vain (but what’s so wrong with that?)
Psst… persona prose poem ahead. No need to panic. No need to @ me. It’s just Word Raccoon, cruising in metaphor. A revised version may appear elsewhere in the future.
Once upon a Sopranos-soaked decade ago, Word Raccoon had a very specific dream: a Cadillac Escalade. Gold wheels. A statement. Obnoxious. Tacky. Ironic. A middle finger dipped in rhinestones.
She was in a mood (and probably wearing a shrug) and rightfully so.
She pictured herself Tonka-trucking over whoever looked at her funny. Or at the very least, feeling extremely safe in a snowstorm.
Sometimes she didn’t want to feel safe. Opposite, really.
She wanted to fishtail down gravel roads and
break down without cell service,
have to walk home
in shoes with a broken heel.
hitchhiking into the past
and picking herself up
in a semi
and taking herself
an alternate route.
Or just make it to the DQ before they closed at ten.
But.
The universe blinked slowly at this dream/nightmare vehicle. So did her bank account. So did her husband.
So she compromised. A little.
She set aside the fantasy not entirely, let’s not be dramatic and started noticing what could be beautiful and soft without requiring financing.
She took long drives in her succession of cars, the total value of which was probably still less than her beloved Escalade, but rarely on country roads. Admired light on cornfields like it was a runway. Turned old roadmaps into love letters she shredded, unread, by moonlight. Built stories with pen and paper instead of purchasing horsepower.
As of today, she drives a Cadillac crossover: smaller, silver, sensible, with no regrets. She LOVES it and can scarcely contain her desire to drive all night.
No gold wheels, but she still wears her sunglasses like armor, still dares anyone to underestimate her at a four-way stop.
And yet, she’ll be the first to wave you on through.
Because the dream wasn’t about the car. It was about running over the things that wouldn’t get out of her way, metaphorically.
It was about being higher than everyone else
not out of snobbery,
but so she could finally see
where the hell she was.
Where she was going.
Where she’d been.
Her bearings. Herself.
A perspective she suspected
most people never even thought to ask for.
Maybe never knew existed.
She wanted to show up like she meant it.
And baby, she always means it.
Cars come and go.
Art is forever.
She can live without many things, has and will, if she must.
But not without her art.
Say it again for those in the cheap seats.
Oh, wait. Art has no cheap seats.
👓 Author’s Note:
Word Raccoon would like to clarify that she still thinks Escalades are a vibe, and would like to sit in one just once and recline dramatically with a smoothie and yell at Tony while wearing sunglasses and maybe a (fake) fur coat. But she’s also just pretty jazzed to have found these VERY COOL wheels with husband, who says it can be her baby. She’s not arguing.
And yes, she will be writing poems in the new car. Parked just slightly askew, because that’s how she rolls and because she can’t park for shit.
And now, with 90s ballads in the speakers and a pen in the console,
Word Raccoon is revved up in every sense.
Beware the poem she writes in the coffeehouse parking lot.
It might be about you.
You should be so lucky, love.
Carmela just had her nails done.
She’s deciding if you’re worth messing them up for.
This is all to say that hey, Word Raccoon and I have wheels again! No harm, no foul, eh?
Update: Had I looked closer at the forecast, I could’ve saved myself this whole spiral. I’m not walking through thunderstorms to get to a café today. The sun porch at home it is. At least until any lightning. Word Raccoon does not like that. (Then again, the weather app just updated and no thunderstorms? I’m so confused. As ever.)
I’m posting this anyway because we have this discussion all the time, Word Raccoon and I.
Here are the options for today:
Option A: Stay home.
Clean house (ugh).
Probably not write, because “I’ll just clean first” turns into “I forgot I even wanted to write.”
Fight with the clutter and lose.
Possibly eat something sad like string cheese and write a poem about how sad it is.
Maybe catch a glimpse of something distracting out the window. Because we are easily distracted.
Option B: Go to the café
with a sub-decision needed: indoors or porch
Walk through misting rain with no umbrella, unless I find it (unlikely; I think it’s in DH’s van).
Risk being chilly inside, because the café believes all customers should be popsicles.
Be surrounded by students and men discussing conspiracy theories. Or no one. Not sure which is worse. Depends on the day.
Might write. Might revise. Might finally track down those missing poems I swore I uploaded and now cannot find. Might listen to music that makes me want my blankie.
Try not to be nosy and glance out the window every ten minutes.
Fail.
Sit outdoors and see if it rains, if the rain blows in, if the wind is too much, if it’s too chilly.
Order usual breakfast and ask why, because it’s yummy but cold.
Which makes me lean toward:
Option C: Sun porch at home.
Pajamas.
Writing in a blanket cocoon with lukewarm tea.
Wind might ruin it. Rain might slant in. But keeping the windows closed could prevent that. So why am I even thinking on it??
Wildlife sightings are probable (squirrels, cardinals).
Good odds WR will start writing something we don’t finish.
Option D: Abandon all plans.
Become a person who reads novels in bed until noon when it rains.
Sadly, not sustainable.
Tempting anyway. Very.
Creative Decisions Also on the Table:
Poetry: Write new? Revise old? Submit something?
Novel: Are we ever going to open that file again?
Richard Hugo Essay: He wouldn’t pick this topic, he’d say, but maybe he should’ve stood on a porch in the rain with nothing but a Sharpie and a rock.
Reading: Can I read a poem without rewriting it in my head? No. But I’ll try.
Blogging: Is this it? Am I already blogging instead of deciding?
Breakfast: WR already ate a disgusting protein bar and wonders why they’re all one ingredient away from clay. She claims she’s swearing off them. They’re just… handy.
I’d rather be writing this than cleaning the kitchen.
WR says she’s proud of me. I don’t trust her judgment.
But she just slipped on the new earrings. So maybe we’re going. (We’re not.) Or maybe we’re about to fall asleep and overthink it in a dream. (Very possibly our next move.)
Word Raccoon is awake too early, yearning for the words, but trying to figure out what words.
Before I get into WR’s breakfast preferences, I’m trying something new. Apparently audio poetry is what the kids are doing these days, and I wanted to give it a go.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy my reading of a poem I previously posted here, “All In.” I was battling the heat, birds, a determined bee, and shyness so please be kind.
Also, Word Raccoon showed up and I said NO WAY, this wasn’t hers to monkey with. She was pouting in the corner while I recorded. I’m pretty sure she drank the rest of my Coke Zero, and I’m not even mad because it kept her away from my iPhone long enough for me to record.
(Which is my way of saying this recording is low-fi.)
LMK if you like it and I might try it again sometime. See, John Green isn’t the only one who can read poetry. And he’s not even reading his own poetry. (Does he write poetry? No clue.)
Now on with WR’s latest antics.
Word Raccoon is being forced to car shop.
WR would rather chew on a flip-flop.
We’re officially hunting for a second vehicle, and WR hates everything about it.
The haggling.
The mysterious fees.
The dealerships where time stops and all beverages come in those little cans.
You’re supposed to help yourself, but the fridge dings when you select something and you’re like,
What if I want four more ounces of Coke Zero from that Barbie-sized can WR despises?
Are they going to add that onto the sale price?
They ought to be taking us out for a steak dinner, with what even modest vehicles cost nowadays. But if we’re lucky, we’ll get a car wash card which will be useful on the days the car wash is in service.
Sure, my brother gave us all the best insider tips.
He used to sell cars, which in this economy basically makes him an oracle with a clipboard.
But still. The whole thing feels like an endurance challenge designed by a mildly sadistic suburban game show host.
We’re test-driving one later today. WR already has opinions.
I’d rather DH just handle it all.
Drive it, nod gravely, sign papers, hand me a Coke Zero and the keys.
Instead, I’ll probably be there like I always am, playing “Spot the Deal” while trying not to fall for the convertible with a secret Bluetooth personality disorder.
That’d be just my luck.
I was just reminded that I’ve found our last five cars. This one might be number six.
Apparently, I have a nose for moderately priced transportation. Who knew?
We’ve always been in the “drive the modest car, take the extravagant trip” camp.
Our travel budget wears the pants in this relationship.
Our car just wears tires.
Flashback: One time we were trapped at a dealership until after 9 p.m. because of some excuse involving a computer that wouldn’t compute.
WR suspects this was a trick. A loyalty test.
We should have bolted. But we were tired and hungry and afraid to lose our paperwork place in line.
We bought the car. WR still has nightmares.
Meanwhile, this heat?
It’s like God left the oven door open and he didn’t even leave half-baked cookies in it.
I’m sticky, snappish, and beginning to resent everything.
I prefer this to winter, but only in theory.
WR cracked open the famous podcast book club’s pick.
Gave it a good 16% read.
Realized halfway through a sentence that we’d rather be folding laundry.
It’s not you, book. It’s us.
Or maybe it is you. Just not my speed.
This morning we listened to the podcast episode we had been avoiding and decided yes, we can skip this book. But also we wish we hadn’t bought it because WE FORGOT TAYLOR JENKINS REID HAS A NEW ONE OUT, DANG IT, AND WE COULD’VE BOUGHT THAT INSTEAD.
Breathe, WR, we have Kindle Reward Points that are about to expire, and probably a digital credit or two when we’ve been kind and let Amazon deliver our non-emergency packages at a later date. (I mean…aren’t they all more or less non-emergency items unless they are Word Raccoon’s latest earrings? Oh, I should show you those. Next time.)
Is it possible for the weather to be even too hot for me to want to read?
I’m cranky.
And how is it Wednesday?
My eyes are empty.
I’m on the porch watching a squirrel and wondering if he’s too hot.
And if he is (she?), what do they do to stay cool?
As if I couldn’t go inside at any point and watch stupid videos about spooky Zillow listings and forget the world.
Why am I on the porch attempting to write
as if I don’t have air conditioning indoors waiting for me?
And all I’ve written today is this silly blog post. (Do we get a t-shirt with that?)
Yesterday, I edited and posted. (And traveled home.)
Wrote one really, really stupid line of poetry.
A few other horrible lines, now lost.
Would I even share them if I found them?
I just found them.
And if these were on paper, I’d burn them.
Do you know what it’s like to go to your happy place,
and it’s not happy,
it’s just the devil’s mouth with sand?
That was the dunes earlier this week.
I had no walks by the water in the morning when the beach is still empty.
Zero time in the water.
I only saw one seagull.
I brought no items back for the porch.
No shells, no rocks, no driftwood, no pinecones, no sand.
Too surreally hot. Then too wet with rain coming.
I think my dreams dreamed when I napped on the beach. Maybe hallucinated.
I saw exactly one adorable puppy with adorable puppy energy,
but he was on the wrong beach,
and his owner was quickly told to move him.
I just realized how important energy is to me.
I saw…
I saw…
No. Not yet.
Thank goodness I had Richard Hugo to poem-wrestle on the beach.
The grief whispers now instead of howling, at least there’s that. It sorts through every memory of my mother, sifting gently, asking:
What can be made of this?
No new memories are coming, love.
This is the supply. Every pop of color my mother wore,
every flower she planted, a poem.
Anyway. WR is hot.
WR is cranky.
WR is about to test-drive something with too many miles on it and a suspicious rattle.
(Not really. At least we hope not.)
Wish us luck. And A/C.
P.S. My gray-haired neighbors down the block walked by last night at almost dark, and when they came back a few minutes later, I could barely make out their hands full of peaches with the leaves still attached. Did they…did they sneak out and plunder fruit from a tree??? They probably asked first, but I hope they didn’t.
And I hope they’re making peach ice cream. They seem like the type.
No one tell me differently if I’m wrong about any of this, K?
I did my best not to write the past few days. Well, maybe not entirely my best, but a decent approximation. Okay, fine. I paused on the writing front for a minute or two.
Then on Saturday morning I received the kindest rejection letter EVER.
The editor told me to let him know when my poem, “To Power the Human Heart,” was published, because he knew it would find a home. He said he’d promote it on social media when it did. He said it was in his top ten for poem of the year out of over 500 entries, invited me to submit again in the future, and suggested I check out the journal’s fellowship opportunity.
Wow. That’s an amazing rejection.
(Today I received another heartfelt, personalized rejection about the same poem. Men in particular seem to be connecting to it.)
That stoked the coals, so I sent a thank you and prepared to promptly send “Power” back out to find that home.
Only then, of course, I remembered that most places accept packets of multiple poems. So why send just one poem when you can send five? You never know what someone might connect with.
So there I was, assembling a submission, trying to match tone, theme, vibe, etc. for each journal. I remembered another poem that would go well with a particular packet. That poem probably definitely needed tweaking.
(Time to pause and say that as much as I appreciate praise, sometimes it makes me want to hide just as much as rejection. I feel all “you don’t mean that,” and yet why would someone bother to send such a beautiful email otherwise, am I right? And now I’m embarrassed to have written this, but duckies, we have to share if we are to help each other.)
And suddenly it was lunchtime. But I don’t regret my Saturday porch time at all. It’s such a great space and the view… ah. Soothing to the poem-weary eyes.
Lunch, right. I thought, Give me ten minutes and I’ll finish this submission. Cover letter. Which bio to use? (Ooh! Update the bio because I’ve got new work forthcoming!) Double-check the formatting.
(Word Raccoon whispered: Submit NOW. Then feed me lunch or I’m going to eat your poems. Then she pulled out a lip gloss labeled “poetic frenzy” and added a thick layer.)
She did not bother reminding me that I was supposed to be packing for the dunes, too.
I had a list. I’ve done this trip at least a dozen times. And yet? This time I forgot several essentials. Barely packed any snacks. But I did bring a bag full of books, a journal, pens, highlighters. You know, standard Word Raccoon fare.
WR made sure the van was loaded with Coke Zero. Could she not have added some shampoo?
Anywho, that bag of books is how I ended up arguing with poet and writing teacher Richard Hugo on the beach. The man’s been dead since 1982, but that didn’t stop me. He brought the theory (and the criticism of it). I brought the sunscreen.
Not arguing, exactly. More like creative sparring at first.
Naturally, he ended up in three of my poems I “wasn’t” going to write. One poem was me trying to process something we witnessed on the beach that I am not ready to talk about. Which tells you it wasn’t good, Nan. I grabbed a poetic maxim of Hugo’s and rode it to emotional safety.
The second Hugo poem was just my usual process: wrestling with someone else’s view on poetry until I can see what, if anything, of theirs works for me. (Does that sound like I am a poetry scrapyard ghost? Maybe so.)
I will say that a writing strength I have developed (I think) is knowing when someone’s advice is going to strengthen my writing and when it won’t. I can tell you what each of my writing mentors has contributed to my process. (Perhaps they contributed other things, but with them all, I know at least one specific thing they gave me that has made my writing better.)
Even the worst writing mentor (a professor) I had in the 1990s taught me about sentence patterns and length and how I ought to vary them. He was right. (See what I did there?)
It is currently almost two a.m., but instead of stepping in that hole in the yard again, I will tell you what other poems I “didn’t” write this weekend.
I wrote:
• a poem about cheese being made in our town (that disturbs me, though I don’t think it should)
• one about my mother (she visited me in a dream on the beach, wearing her mint green sun hat I hadn’t thought of since childhood)
Yes, I napped on the beach almost as soon as we got there. Hubs says I said “Do not disturb” and promptly fell asleep in my chair.
• one about my anxiety over leaving my glasses in the car (not because I needed them, but because I was suddenly convinced they’d focus sunlight just so and start a fire. Welcome to my stupid mind where anything bad, no matter how improbable, is still a possibility. Which is why it’s exhausting being me.)
• one called Aqueduct that I’m only now second-guessing the title of (typical). The main character rides a horse for no good reason. It’s overly sentimental schlock, I fear.
• one featuring Natasha Lyonne (embarrassed by the title, not the content—so I’ll let that one marinate until I forget to be mortified or find a better title). It’s about The Thing falling in love. Go see Fantastic Four and you’ll get it. LOL. BTW, Natasha is fabulous in everything she acts in.
• and that difficult-to-write Hugo poem, title redacted because it’s too soon to talk about.
Meanwhile, Word Raccoon had fully staged her own side quest. She sat beside me under our cabana, halfway through a frozen chocolate-covered banana that I noticed she did not offer me a bite of, even though she knew I was awake by then.
While I was deep in Hugo-land, she dumped the contents of her tote across her towel like a glitterbomb.
Contents of said beach bag (as of this morning): • One Sylvia Plath coloring book (half-shaded, with commentary in the margins) • A zine titled Poetry Snacks for Restless Geniuses (“Issue #1: What If the Poem Is the Snack?”) • A glitter pen that doesn’t work, thank God • Highlighters in four shades: Overwhelm, Intrigue, Oh No She Mitten’t, and Spite
We still have another day at the dunes ahead. The sun feels like it’s trying to burn my life from me. I’ve been craving this place for weeks, and now that I’m here, it’s…more intense than I expected.
It had rained, and was going to rain more, yesterday, so though we made it to the beach, breakfast in hand, we did not stay after we ate.
You will ask if we checked the weather ahead. We did, friend. But as I keep yelling this summer, the weather apps are wrong, like, all the time. Just this summer.
Then again, the whole spring/summer kinda feels like a fever dream. Some pleasant spots, to be sure. But this heat!
It eventually led us to go see the latest Superman movie in air conditioning (the movie was sweet though not flawless, and please don’t think I’m a geeky superhero fan; I’m just easily lured by popcorn).
Before the movie, I finished The Triggering Town and found a sentence that made me exclaim “NO SIR, I cannot let you by with this!”
It started as a niggle and grew louder: he had so many of the same faults he was warning writers against. And then came that sentence. Just… no. Absolutely not. That’s not getting a free pass. More on that in a separate post.
And don’t worry, I will be fair. He says many things to be admired in the book, and I won’t forget those even as I discuss the thing that troubles me most.
Like I said, I wrote a third and final poem featuring my beef with him.
I also wrote a rat king of childhood Sears poems that need untangling.
I slept between 2:30 and 6:30 a.m., which it now is. If my weather app is correct, it’s getting hot already. I had hoped to raid the shoreline for some flat rocks to write poetry on before we leave Dunesland. I even brought a Sharpie, ready to freestyle and leave words in the wild.
But the hotter it gets, the less sure I am that we won’t just pack it in and head home. Only the currently sleeping driver knows for sure.
There’s a restaurant along the way we’ve been to a couple of times. Word Raccoon is craving chicken fried steak for breakfast. If they don’t have that, I’ll eat my… well, whatever I eat, it won’t be chicken fried steak.
P.S. Reader, it was indeed too hot, so we came on home after breakfast. They didn’t have chicken fried steak; they did have country fried steak. Same difference. Word Raccoon is very content and happy to be home, even though she didn’t get to go to the beach today. She wishes it were cooler here, too.
(Four bassists and a drummer walk into a restaurant…)
Now Playing: Blues Deville
Let me walk you through what it takes to see friends as an adult:
A Facebook post.
A band’s penultimate show.
A bassist who shares event notices.
Friends you haven’t seen in far too long.
The tenacity to volley messages to all parties and pivot when the weather gods frown upon your good time.
Welcome to Saturday night in your (well, let’s not say how old because husband and I are in different decades for the next half a decade) season beyond youth. And if you don’t want to stay home in your pajamas watching SNL—oh, who am I kidding? Does anyone actually stay up that late anymore? Don’t we all just catch the replay on Hulu when we bother?
Anyway, back to Saturday.
It started when J, the bassist in the band my husband is in, posted that Blues Deville, a band that’s supposedly ending, but apparently not quite yet, was playing locally this weekend.
The main draw? T, the bassist in that band, is also a co-sub with B in yet another band, and he’s B’s coworker too. The two of them subbed together in a different band just a couple of weeks ago, T on bass, B on keys.
Are you keeping up? It’s a lot, I know. And hang on because I’m adding more.
Here. Word Raccoon made a chart. 👇
🎭 Cast of Characters (Because It’s a Lot, I Know)
Initial
Who They Are
Why They Matter
B
My husband. Lead guitarist, sometimes bassist or keyboardist
Plays in multiple bands
J
Bassist in main band B is in, friend for 35+ years
Posted the FB event. Might attend with his new girlfriend
T
The bassist playing Saturday. Also B’s coworker
Fellow sub and solid musician. Saturday’s main event
M
B’s former coworker, K’s partner, drummer
Also delightful. Loves to playfully snark on my FB posts
K
My friend. Partner to M
Hilarious. Wants to catch up. I do, too!
Old S
J’s former girlfriend, not so old. At all.
Word Raccoon is sad and wants a say in these things. (Giving shades of New Adventures of Old Christine, am I right?)
New S
J’s new girlfriend, age unknown.
Academic. Probably also lovely. D tells WR to give her a chance
WR
Word Raccoon, my chaos-fueled alter ego
Possibly definitely sneaking into the event inside my purse
I asked B if T was even still in the band. I thought he’d dropped out. Turns out, yes, he had, because the entire band is dropping out. (They’ve been together quite a few years but apparently it’s run its course.)
T is an excellent bassist, a solid singer, and the band is tight. Definitely something to look forward to. (And let’s be honest, I will be shocked if a certain someone I attend with doesn’t get asked to sit in on a couple songs. I will be even more shocked if he declines.)
B had clicked “Interested” on the event J posted. I clicked “Interested” too, partly so B and J would know I was game if this was a roundabout way to create a group event.
Then I noticed my friend K had also clicked “Interested.” Ooh. That thickened the plot, especially since she and her partner M live in the same city as the venue. I took it as code: It’s time we get dinner. Whether it was meant that way or not, I was going to reach out to our friends because why wouldn’t I?
B and I have been trying to meet up with K and M for a while. M used to work with B, which is how I know K at all, and they are the most fun couple. Sadly, the last time we saw them was at the viewing for my mom.
So I texted B: “Any gigs this weekend?”
Nope, he said. His schedule was open. (He’s supposed to put his gigs on the digital calendar but doesn’t always. I’m also supposed to read it and, well…so I’d say that one’s 50/50.)
Hurdle one: cleared.
I asked if he wanted to go see T play, my way of signaling that I was willing to go. (Sometimes Word Raccoon hisses at anyone who threatens her writing time, but she merely asked if there would be umbrellas in the drinks and then declared herself in. She needed a break, she said, and was already imagining a piña colada. She lives to be a middle-aged cliché in tacky earrings.)
B said yes. Hurdle two: up and over!
Then I asked, “You texting M, or should I text K?”
Normally I’d be the one to text K, because let’s be honest, isn’t it usually the women who coordinate, but not always in this relationship, which is nice, though I do like a good excuse to text.
B said, “Why don’t you text K?”
So I did, and she replied that she and M would love to come. Yay!
But of course, that’s not the end. That would be too easy.
There’s a chance we’re adding two more to the dinner party. Remember J, the bassist who originally posted the event? I asked B if J and his new girlfriend (whom he’s met, but I haven’t) would be going.
Her name begins with S.
(Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but… what happened to the former S? We were buddies. No one ran this by me. I’m sure the new S is lovely. I truly am. But I will miss the (not-so) old S. I could text her, but that would feel…a little nosey-parker, wouldn’t it?)
(Word Raccoon, meanwhile, is texting her with both thumbs. Because former S was SO MUCH FUN. Who will dance with us now? Who will help us channel our inner 23-year-old at 2 a.m. while the band packs up? Let us not speak of our shenanigans. WR is distraught. Don’t worry, there is zero chance J, old S, or new S will read this. I hope.)
I asked B if he’d text J to confirm. (The possible attendance, not the breakup. That, alas, has been confirmed. Word Raccoon is now sulking in her flowered robe and clutching her stuffed Minion.)
Barry agreed to text J.
Three days passed.
I still hadn’t heard anything, which meant B had probably spaced it.
So I had a choice: ask again or ignore it. If I ignored it and they showed up, I’d feel awful. Would there be space at the table? Did the venue require reservations? A final head count would really help.
I hate to be sexist, but this is why the women do the planning! I wrote a poem today called “In Emotional Labor,” y’all. Do you see why? LOL. I did write it, but not because of that. It wasn’t aimed.
(Reader, I asked. He had spaced it. A quick text to J got a “probably” in response. Which, fair, it’s kind of a maybe for all of us at this point with the weather.)
So the current guest list is four…or six…or will it happen.
And honestly? That feels just about right for adult friendships, semi-defunct bands, and heat-stroked/rain drenched venues.
This, my friends, is what adult playdates look like:
One part bass players
Two parts shared calendars
A dash of Facebook reconnaissance
And a generous pour of I hope the weather cooperates
We’re not finished. It’s not just rain we have to worry about.
Today is Thursday, and the outdoor venue already posted on Facebook that they closed early today due to extreme heat. So even if it doesn’t rain on Saturday… are we really going to be up for a concert in the molten core of July?
(Can you tell I’m writing this early for next week’s post? That’s why the tenses are doing the cha-cha. Time is a construct, especially when coordinating adult hangouts.)
Friend K texted to ask if we should have alternate plans in case of rain. Which: A. Means it’s not just about the band; they want to see us, YAY, and B. Is a brilliant suggestion. Why didn’t I think of that?
We also now have alternate plans in my mind for heat: dinner somewhere air-conditioned, then maybe the show, once the sun stops trying to murder us.
Oh, and Word Raccoon has not been invited.
Because…isn’t it obvious?
She knows. She’s pretending not to care while polishing her nails. I caught her sneaking glitter sunscreen into my purse and checking the hourly forecast on three weather apps. She’s already picked out a dress with swishy sleeves, earrings shaped like tambourines (which we don’t actually own, but now… we might need to fix that), and she keeps muttering something about “poetic closure in the parking lot.”
She was also carrying a tiny case that may or may not hold a raccoon-sized bass.
And honestly? With this many musicians floating around, there’s a non-zero chance we’ll be asked to sing for our supper. So… we might need her, right?
If WR makes it out of the bag, I cannot be held responsible.
She loves to dance. And by now, she’s probably learned to play that bass. Not like Jaco Pastorius or anything, but I happen to know she knows a few notes.
And that’s how adult playdates work now:
With the help of social media
A side of texting
A weather app obsession
An increasingly chaotic entourage of bassists
And a big measure of music
Or here’s hoping it works out.
Saturday evening update: Just home from outing. Band gig canceled due to rain.
B texted J and told him that. Since J lives in Huntington and the gig was in Warsaw, end of transmission. So I still have not met S. 2. B’s band has an annual gig next weekend that I haven’t decided if I’m going to. That might be a chance.
Back to Saturday: B, I, K, and M ended up going out for Italian and a movie instead.
We went to a place called Salvatori’s, a restaurant my brother has been suggesting for quite a while. I should’ve listened to him sooner because I had the best meal I’ve had in a long time.
Their special, chicken piccatta, was excellent! Description: “Pan-fried chicken simmered in a lemon-butter white wine sauce served with capers.” It came on a bed of linguine and grilled lemons with a piece of bread, along with a side salad. It was perfectly seasoned, just this side of too salty; the white wine melded beautifully with the butter and lemons, and when warm, was amazing. It was still really good when it cooled, but I’m a stickler for warm food. It definitely could’ve fed two, and actually, I shared it freely with my tablemates.
After a quick trip to the Dollar Tree where Word Raccoon did not fill her purse with candy and buy some fun eyeshadow on a lark that she hopes doesn’t stain her eyelids, we went to see Fantastic Four.
(It was not my suggestion to buy the candy, but of course I went along with it. You have not lived until you tell the clerk you are definitely not buying candy to take to the theater and he hands you an extra bag so you can definitely not separate it from your other purchases.)
Also, I was purse shamed by someone who shall remain nameless who said I should know by now that I cannot bring a small purse to a movie.
“But I thought we were going to be normal people and buy from the concession stand. And also, we just ate dinner! Even Word Raccoon is not hungry.”
Which would’ve played better except at that point WR had a Twizzler in her paws.
“What?” she asked when I glared at her.
While I’m not a sci-fi fan on any front, Marvel movies are usually fun. Despite not being sure we wanted to see it, it was a sweet movie and people clapped and cheered during parts of it that I won’t spoil here. It was heartening to hear people still enjoying an American pastime during times like these.
So yeah, socializing as adults has its challenges. But also, you feel free to say “No, I really don’t want to go to the 9:45 showing. That’s past my bedtime.”
Except you have to hope they forget your husband is a musician and sometimes plays into the wee hours of the morning. But honestly, that feels like a whole other burn.
I’ve decided I’m not going to write this weekend. I’m calling it a challenge. A sabbath. A truce. A polite but firm ceasefire with the part of my brain that sees everything as material. No poems. No posts. Just rest. That’s the goal. We’ll see.
I’m going to cozy up with some poetry craft books. (You see the problem with this strategy, don’t you? Those books are going to absolutely turn my brain into flames and I’m going to have to be forcefully called back to daily life. You know that, right? You know it. I know it. But sure, let’s plan like I’m actually going to see a whole ass movie and go hear a band without begging for a pen.)
Yesterday, I wandered into a café, and there was a young man, someone I’ve only ever seen in his Official Librarian Mode. He noticed the Sylvia Plath biography in my hand and said he’d never read her. I blinked. “You’ve never read Plath?” I began, just starting to open that glorious can of worms. But then my phone rang. Conversation, gone. (But a poem? Probably already blooming in the background.)
Later that day, I finished a humor essay I started back in May and submitted it. To a long-shot journal. Nothing ventured, am I right?
And since the piece was already floating on my clipboard, I shared it with a literary friend when I answered an email. He wrote back warmly, and before I knew it, we were deep into a conversation about Southern food. Specifically, cornbread. You can tell he lives below the biscuit line. I’m not big on cornbread, but I’d love some of Mia’s cheesy cornbread! (That’s my eldest.)
All this to say: I haven’t even started not writing yet, and I’m afraid of failing spectacularly. Word Raccoon asks what exactly she’s supposed to do in the meantime, work on her tan? “Word” is right there in her name, she says.
Maybe I can tempt her with a book. She’d probably chew on it, though. 👀
Welcome, New Readers
To those who’ve just arrived, maybe from a Facebook post, maybe from a journal that featured one of my poems, or maybe from that half-finished café conversation, hi! Welcome!
Word Raccoon and I leave the porch light on for readers, rebels, and people with strong cornbread preferences. This space is messy, but the intentions are good. You’re welcome here, whether you want to wave or lurk.
🎵 Unexpected Bonus Track
Oh, and I mentioned over on Facebook (yes, Facebook, but that’s where most of my writer friends and our writing program alum group hangs out, so there we have it) that my poem, Authorial Intent Ale has been published. A friend commented that there’s “lots to admire” in it, and that he’s printing out a copy to save.
A poet friend.
To save.
Reader, I melted.
That’s the real dream: not going viral, not applause, just to have your work be quietly kept by someone who found something worth holding onto. Wow.
So anyway, I’m not planning on writing this weekend. But beforehand, I’m submitting essays and poems, being read, almost evangelizing Sylvia Plath, and contemplating whether a hummingbird is a sacred object. (Several have discovered our backyard. They’re mesmerizing miracles and WR wants to hug one but I told her no, no, they are too fragile. She’s not so great with the restraint, but she’s trying.)
Don’t put money on me not writing this weekend, friend. You might well lose it. But I’ll try to write less, anyway.
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