After agonizing and praying to the Nyquil gods during a nasty cold in April of this year to please, please, give me some way to call out to certain poets who were not, as far as I knew, using their considerable talents, this poem came to me at about 3 a.m.
(Apparently I’ve become the self-appointed Art Room Mother of wayward poets. Particularly the talented ones. Why? Because art supersedes everything. It’s not about me. It’s about the work. Collectively.)
I wasn’t even sure what the poem meant when I finished it, but I knew it was exactly right. Or the cold medicine thought so, anyway.
Word Raccoon wasn’t fully formed yet; I was winging it, and poetry felt scorching to the touch. You should see her poor little paws now that she gets to hold the fire!
I liken writing “Wafflehouse” to this moment in Hook when Robin Williams remembers he’s Peter Pan. When he sees the invisible feast and reclaims himself. I won’t try to describe that further because you really need to watch it for yourself, loves.
Let me say ahead of time that this clip applies to all artists. So yeah…the power of imagination rules!
Anyway, my poetry popped that morning as if it had always been there and I just hadn’t seen it, and it was only when I called to others to please, god, use theirs that I became aware I had any of my own.
Still shy. Still unsure on the poetry front over here. But sometimes…maybe?
In the meantime, I’m huffing others’ poetry, mainlining it because that’s where the good stuff is hiding. That’s where it’s real. That’s how we can be known, if we’re brave enough to write it.
Not a pretty way of saying this, but here it is, anyway: some people make themselves known with their mouths. Some need to write it down. But in either case, you deserve to be known in a way that casual contact with the world will not give you. So try a pen, love, if you are feeling backwards.
Art is all the plausible deniability the world needs. And I wouldn’t even term it that, because it’s just truth in different clothes. Truth is beyond the pettiness of details.
Dammit, can’t give up that room mother role easily, can I? Sorry, where was I?
Word Raccoon is covering her eyes in second hand embarrassment. I know, WR. I know.
Maybe “Wafflehouse” doesn’t say all this to most people, but maybe it does just for the one person listening for it.
Hell, maybe that’s not even who I thought it might be. But if it is…they’ll know.
Art first. Art always.
Mr. Rockwell will see you now. (Someone call Father John Misty, because we need to write a song with that in it!)
Also, Sweet Loretta is getting back to the café where she once belonged. Let others talk of bagels and London Fogs while she huddles in her former corner with her notebook. The view might not be as good, but my pen has moved to lesser ones before.
Except on Mondays, when the usual haunts go dark and caffeine cravings might reroute Word Raccoon and me elsewhere. Unless Word Raccoon stages a pajama coup and declares our kitchen table a sacred desk.
Which, honestly, why isn’t that our default?
Hons, I know this is probably embarrassingly earnest, but in case you hadn’t noticed, art is life to me.
Yesterday morning, Word Raccoon insisted on wearing a dress.
I reminded her that we’re currently on foot. The totaled vehicle has not been replaced yet, though the search has begun. Ugh.
She gave me that look. You know the one. The “I’m made of poetry and rebellion” one. She said she didn’t care.
Fine, I said. It was too early to argue. But she’d have to make do with sensible shoes, and I wasn’t letting her freeze; leggings were non-negotiable. It was going to be in the 60s when we reached the café, and I was absolutely sitting outdoors.
She acquiesced. (Grudgingly. With a dramatic sigh.)
But then she bargained.
And I, softhearted sucker that I am, agreed to wear the cowboy hat.
This should have its own decision tree, frankly, but that’s another post. And once you have it on you’re stuck unless you’re cool with hat hair all day.
So there I was: dress, leggings, cowboy hat. And wouldn’t you know it? A guy going into the café said, “You look just like Reba McEntire!”
(Spoiler: I do not. Not even a little. Not my face, not my hair color, not at all. But thank you, Stranger.)
He said I just needed a guitar and to sit outdoors and sing.
I did not tell him: A) I do sing. B) I play a (very) little guitar. You know I mean I play a little bit of music, not that I play a tiny guitar, right? C) I was already sitting outside.
Later, at the gym, a young man was singing loudly and enthusiastically, though almost entirely off-key. I think it was rap?? So calling it singing might be a stretch. It was…oddly charming. A kind of public karaoke confidence. I respect it. Even if his fun verbal doodles did remind me of bicycles. IDK why…the way they spun?
Anyway, the point is: sometimes the dress wins. Sometimes Word Raccoon wins. And sometimes you just want a flowchart to help make the call.
So here you go.
Should I Wear a Dress Today? A (Mostly) Functional Flowchart
Step 1: Do you want to wear a dress?
Yes → Wear it.
No → Don’t. That’s it. End of flow. Go live your pants or shorts truth. (Or skorts, but that’s just a confused garment if you ask me. Shorts? Skirt? Both? Make up your mind, oh piece of clothing!)
Step 2: Are you leaving the house?
Yes → Do you want to make a statement?
Yes → Dress it is.
No → Consider your top-tier stealth outfit. Preferably all black.
No → Is a delivery expected?
Yes → Lounge pants or pajama shorts. Preferably the ones with the koala on them. BTW, where did they go? Word Raccoon!!
No → Night gown. You’re royalty now. Although is a night gown really a dress? Probably not. And if someone comes to the door unexpectedly, you will not answer the door in that. Pinkie swear??
It is one thing to wear your robe over your clothes on your sun porch for comfort and color. We do not wear our night gown (or robe, for that matter) when we are out and about. Are you listening, Word Raccoon? Word Raccoon??? Naturally, she is now at the top of the stairs in my blue night gown, hands in the air. Take that off before you trip, WR!
Step 3: Weather? (I feel like you already know this, but just in case…)
Warm → Dresses win: breeze = built-in AC. Curses on cute sundresses because you will be forever battling the “but these bra straps are so cute can’t I get by with displaying them because hiding them is next to impossible anyway but oh no. That’s so tacky. But who would even know it’s not a tank? But I know.”
Windy → Proceed with caution. Ditto crossing street vents. When I was in Paris last, I pulled a Marilyn but thankfully with just my blouse. (And here I thought I’d never tell that story.)
Cold → Add tights, boots, blanket scarf, etc. And, if you’re me today, even though it’s July, add a small throw because when you bring your cape, people say you have a blanket anyway. Might as well oblige them.
Rainy → Do you curse when you come home dragging wet material like a stray dog begging for a meal? Then not today. Or just be sure to make it a shorter one if you do wear one, love.
Step 4: Will you need to climb/squat/perform chair and possibly table moving maneuvers?
Yes → How agile is that hem?
No → Proceed to twirling test. Administer by spinning thrice in both directions. You should have the sensation of wanting to squeal “Whee!” If not, it is not the dress for today.
Step 5: Is this outfit about being seen?
Yes → Turn it up. Channel main character energy. But what about those times when you hope you were seen by the world but just aren’t sure? Hey, feeling cute beats feeling not regardless.
No → Wear the dress you love and act like no one else exists. P.S. If you love it, everyone will ask you where you bought it. If you hate it, it will become invisible and rightly so. Also, why are you wearing a dress you hate, sweetie? Life is too short.
Step 6: Do you own a cowboy hat? (Word Raccoon made me add this!)
Yes → Is today the day it gets worn?
Yes → Saddle up, Reba.
No → Save it for your next crisis of identity. Or the next time it comes back in fashion because aren’t you a couple of years off, babe? Not that we pay attention to that much. If you have style, you’re always in style. Or so says Word Raccoon.
No → It’s never too late
TL;DR:
If Word Raccoon wants the dress, you’re wearing the dress. If someone says you look like Reba, smile and sip your iced tea. If an off-key man serenades the gym, consider it ambiance. If you need a flowchart to make your choices feel sacred or at least well considered: here it is.
You’re welcome.
And Word Raccoon is a bit disappointed that only the stranger mentioned her hat. Next time she’ll try wearing a traffic cone atop her head. You know, for stopping traffic.
Or maybe she’ll just hand out comment cards instead: How would you rate today’s ensemble? That could be entertaining. Or embarrassing. Or just very on-brand for WR.
Besides Word Raccoon, I had another co-writer yesterday for a bit. A 7-year-old girl whose mother owns the store next to the coffeehouse asked me what I was doing.
“I’m writing,” I said, but I had switched to the home page when she glanced at my computer so as not to scorch the little dear’s eyeballs. (I don’t think she can read much yet, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.)
“You are not,” she said.
I told her I was, but that my writing was “private.” We discussed how sometimes you’re not ready or willing to share what you’re writing and that’s okay.
I told her I was writing poetry. She didn’t know what that was.
“Roses are red, violets are blue.” I said the whole thing.
“I know that one,” she said.
She wanted to write a poem, too, so she typed her name on my laptop and dictated the rest of her poem to me. Part of it was:
Fries are yellow.
Cars can be any color.
She waved goodbye when her mother came out and the girl called me “the lady who writes poems.”
Writing with her was my favorite part of the day.
Before and after she kept me company, Word Raccoon and I wrote poems (and poemettes) that were certainly not for tender eyes:
– Even Her (I might print this one just to shred it with my bare hands. Backspacing is not enough for my ire.)
– Line, Please (Self-explanatory, duckies.)
– Five Sacred Minutes (That was my time co-writing)
– These Bows are Made for Walking (Bows, boots. Whatever. You know what they do. )
– (I wrote one with a title that was 41 words long as a joke. The title IS the poem and it’s also pissed.)
– Bet You Were Naked When I Wrote This (Metaphorically, naturally. Unless?)
– Congratulations on Your Assignment (The cosmic dice have spoken, darling.)
– Welcome to Me, the Accidental Songstress of Longing (Lucky me. Erryday.)
– Bitter (redacted) with a Lyricist’s Ear
– The Lady or the Lager (Inspired by the short story of a similar name, one of my mother’s favorite stories.)
– Meta Breakdown in Aisle Five (I would never. Just on paper, loves. That’s where all good drama belongs.)
– Big River (Rio…river…get it? About Beth from Good Girls. And me warning Rio about her.)
– One More Glass of “Eff It,” Please (Do I really need to explain?)
– Love Letters Disguised as Literary Wrecking Balls (Eight emaciated lines that want to do the title proud but just aren’t yet.)
– Choose Your Lose (I can’t remember what this one is about.)
Out of those, probably only two are capable of breathing on their own at this point.
Most of the poems are in the “in progress” file.
Word Raccoon says we’re being too hard on the poems, but I don’t want to give the impression I think I’m spinning gold. I know when something is still finding its way and when it has found its voice.
Does all of this poem making even mean anything?
I’d like to think so.
Remember, I’m the “lady” who writes poems, the one small children offer Skittles to and grace my keyboard with their sticky fingers. Which honestly, I loved.
I’m getting published some and I’m grateful for it. Let someone else hold the coals.
In the meantime, someone tell the title it’s an effing liar.
Now Playing: “The Sound of Settling” by Death Cab for Cutie
First of all, feel free to groan aloud at this post’s title.
Now: guess what? My poem “On Reading Crush” will be published in the September/October issue of Cathexis Northwest Press!
Over the weekend, I had two journals accept my work, with a total of five poems between them. Told you the frog was good luck. 🐸✨
This particular poem, “On Reading Crush,” is about a very specific kind of heat—the kind that comes from falling into a book that rewires something in your soul.
It’s not about a person. It’s about a book that reminded me I have a body.
I first read Richard Siken’s Crush when I went back to college in my thirties. I was married. I had children. And I was stunned (okay, maybe a little scandalized) by how fiercely I responded to it.
That book didn’t just speak to desire. It validated mine.
It made space for the idea that I was still allowed to be a sexual being, even while doing the dishes, helping with homework, or even though my own children were already dating. It said: You are still here. And you are still alive in this skin. And, There is no expiration date on desire.
That was a revelation.
So yes, this is a crush poem. But the crush was on language. On intensity. On the parts of myself I’d filed away as impractical and, worse, unallowed.
When “Crush” was accepted (and I really am thrilled and grateful!), I immediately worried about my grown children reading it. I’ve always told them they can tell me anything. I hope they feel the same toward me, even if this poem makes them squirm a little.
I started writing a warning post just for them. Except, of course, it turned into a poem. (And a pretty cool one, if I do say so myself.)
So I won’t share it here just yet. But let’s just say that between now and September, Mother may need to have a little chat with her kinder. Love yous. 😘 (My kiddos are great; I think they’ll understand.)
It’s always strange, though, isn’t it? Thinking of your parents as full-fledged, yearning, occasionally unruly human beings. Did Word Raccoon consider that before she slung those lines?
Yes. Yes, she did.
Now if I can embrace that part of myself too, well… You’ll see what I mean when “On Reading Crush” drops on September 1st.
Stay tuned, and maybe clear a little space for secondhand blushing. (I did read it aloud to exactly one person before I sent it out, and let me say, I hope everyone doesn’t flinch that hard. Still sent it, because Word Raccoon does what she must.)
TL;DR: Yes, darlings, your mother still has a pulse. Try not to faint. 💋
Now Playing: “Die With a Smile”: Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars
I picked up the frog today. Yes, that frog. My ceramic prince. My chalky, paint-chipped protector with my childhood scribbles hidden on his underbelly like a secret survival spell. The one I wrote about last week (that post lives here) and today, he lives with me!
My bae is a chalkware masterpiece, created sometime between 1940’s-60’s and belonged first to my Grandma Frankie (I’ve got the stories!) and then to my mother. He’s about 10 inches long.
I can barely see the words I carved into him all those years ago, but I can still feel them. Literally and otherwise.
He’s heavier than I remember. So is everything. Because I didn’t just come home with a frog today. I came home with a bread box. With photos. With a crock. With a ziplock bag of who-we-were. And a few other things I’ll share in the coming weeks.
Word Raccoon, to her credit, bought donuts this morning before my eyes were barely opened. “For the meetup,” she said. “And maybe two extra, just for… you know.” She didn’t say grief-eating, but she didn’t not say it. (Pictured above: those two “extra” donuts.)
We don’t usually eat donuts. We didn’t need donuts. We ate the donuts. But we shared, so really we only ate one.
When she started squeezing peaches at the grocery, I put a halt to her shenanigans. I take produce selection seriously, and I was not in the mood that early. Besides, the peach she chose should’ve been eaten within the next ten minutes to be at its peak.
We needed something to hold on to, she said. Like a ceramic frog. Or a poem. Speaking of which…
Something wild and wonderful is happening, and I suspect my frog prince had something to do with it, because apparently he’s my lucky charm (maybe I should make him a tiny crown): four of my poems were picked up this week by The Rye Whiskey Review. I’m so excited!
One of them, “Authorial Intent Ale,” is already out in the world over at The Rye Whiskey Review
I wrote it for a certain subset: my darling writing friends. Dear Bro Poets: don’t hate me for the poem. You know I only speak the truth.
I’ve hung out with you at writing residencies in foreign countries, watched you suck on cigarettes like that’s where you’d find the words, sat beside you at bars. I know this is how you think. (Some of you. Many of you?) No, not you. You know I don’t mean you. But you others? Yeah, you.
Please don’t get butthurt, babes. (Maybe that needs to be a poem.) I’m just suggesting you take poetry out on the road, too, and open it up, see what she’s got. (She’s got a lot.)
And also: fuck you for not inviting me in. I had to kick the door down! Did it occur to you once to ask if I might like to play along? That I might not want to just listen as you watched to see if I peed myself at your enjambment?
Bro.
Love you. 😂
I am so grateful to Editor in Chief John Patrick Robbins for choosing my poems. I’ll keep you updated as the others come out.
Heads up: One of them I wrote when I was angry. We don’t execute poems when we’re feeling better. That would be a word betrayal, and writers don’t do that, but please do keep that in mind when it gets published.
(Word Raccoon is somewhere sulking because she thinks she should have been credited. She claims she wrote it at 3 a.m. with one paw and a stolen red pen. I’m not arguing. In fact, I remember the wide grin on her face when she wrote the title “Authorial Intent Ale,” and she knew some brosephs were gonna feel seen. Or slain.)
I don’t know if the chalkware frog is truly good luck. (He is.)
I don’t know if it’s timing. (It is.)
But I do know this: after years of being quiet about what I want, I said, “No. That one’s mine.”
And this week, some poems said “yes” to me, too.
Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I’ll take the bite.
And that frog feels just right in my arms.
While I can’t, as I said, clearly make out what I wrote on its underside all of those years ago, there is a symbol I still can.
That’s poetic.
Those earbuds I said I’d show you, here they are in all their Word Raccoon-bitten glory? Why was I still using them? No clue. I haven’t trashed them yet, but as soon as I’m done with this post, into the trash they go!
I broke out the Freewrite tonight. Seemed just right for writing poetry at the cafe, even if my name isn’t Chad and I don’t smoke cigars.
Word Raccoon was just messing around, socializing, but when I opened the Freewrite, her eyes got huge. She hadn’t used it before.
Let me say, she liked it.
A friend of mine stopped in unexpectedly and ended up sharing a table with me. After we chatted for a while, she read, I wrote. Ideal.
(Okay, we did laugh at a raunchily, unintentionally mistyped text I received, and other things. The laughter just drove away the seriousness in me for a minute, which was good.)
I was kinda worried I still wouldn’t be able to settle down, but when I channeled Father John Misty, Word Raccoon got to work.
FJM ended up in a poem, but I don’t have it handy to tell you how: ye olde Freewrite needs to be updated. Until then, I think it has full custody of most of my poems of the night.
I will be using the Freewrite again for poetry, and soon.
A few I took pictures of and uploaded to my email to be sure I didn’t lose them.
Somehow, and honestly, IDK how, I wrote two flash fiction stories about Bonnie and Clyde: B & C Go to Target, and B & C Go to Therapy. I meant it to be writing poetry, but when I saw that ragged, long right edge, I realized it wasn’t poetry, and I laughed.
In the first, Bonnie asked Clyde to grab her a pack of Twizzlers while he’s in the Target NOT knocking it over.
Spoiler: he’s totally knocking it over.
Word Raccoon was on full display this evening, starting with the Twizzlers.
Then when she threw the two of them in a therapist’s office, you can imagine how Clyde liked that.
See, Clyde brought back Red Vines, not Twizzlers. Which meant they argued, which meant Bonnie didn’t take right off. Which meant they got caught.
That’s how they ended up in therapy.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spoiled it, but it was unintentionally written anyway.
There were a couple of poems that were not so much. They still reside, as I said, on the writing box.
Actually, one featured Corpus Christi and lipstick, along with Goodwill bedsheets, so I might like that one, too.
Then there were two short little A-bombs that made my throat squeeze and WR began packing up our things saying it was time to GOOOO!
And it was, anyway.
On the way home, I found a painted rock. Those haven’t been a thing for a few years now, and I thought it was sweet. Is the trend coming back, because I think Word Raccoon could get into that, instead of painting them, writing poems on them and putting them out in the wild. Or doing both.
Maybe she’ll do it regardless.
Once home, I found my new earpods in the mail slot. Yay! When I wrote about them the other day I asked myself why I hadn’t bought new ones. I told myself it’s because I was attached to them, that the struggle was funny and endearing.
Then I had to admit I was being ridiculous and overly sentimental. So yay, they’re here now.
Remind me to upload a pic of my grungy old ones another time.
I submitted four poems earlier, but I’m thinking I’m a living chapbook. Do I really need to publish them except for giving to others?
It’s kind of like giving people your strange little pets, or the things that live under your bed and going, hey, look at this weird thing.
It’s raining again.
I don’t mind.
It’s cooled things off, the plants, I’m told, are happy.
I’m writing on my own porch now, wondering what Bonnie and Clyde might do next.
Really, WR, Bonnie and Clyde? Haven’t they been done to death? I’m not even particularly a fan.
But the raccoon is in charge tonight.
Where shall we take them next?
I’m thinking La Sagrada Familia.
You know, it just occurred to me that there are multiple meanings to the title.
Oh, in Spain, when one of the women in the group asked me for a quip (apparently I was “a quipped.”), I sang La Sagrada Familia to the tune of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.
Word Raccoon is not a coy creature, so she nudged me to share this: I might have good news.
Today, I had my fingers x-rayed. Two on my dominant hand (I’m a Southpaw) have been swollen for what feels like forever. I’m still using the hell out of them: typing, cooking, writing, you know, living, but it would be really nice if they didn’t hurt so much. There’s a treatment option on the table if we can get a clearer diagnosis.
And yes, I have a jewelry box full of rings WR is dying to wear again. She’s already pawing at it.
That was the first hopeful thing from my doctor’s appointment yesterday. The second? She suspects there may be a different explanation for my chronic hip pain that PT has not helped. Here’s hoping. I don’t have an appointment date for that yet to confirm, but I am hopeful!
Y’all. I’ve been in pain and not been able to do what I want now for years. And now, for the first time in a long while, it feels like something might shift. Like I might get to be a new woman.
(As if I’m not already. Blame Word Raccoon.)
The Field Trip That Brought the Words Back
You want to know how the poems returned this time?
I took them on a walk.
My hip and I marched ourselves uptown, waved to my porch buddy outside the usual coffeehouse, and said Shhh, please don’t rat me out, I’m skipping my regular spot today. He laughed and promised not to tell.
We went to the other coffeehouse, and plot twist: the owner and his family are our neighbors. Not just in the vague “we live in the same town” way.
I mean I’ve watched this man chop at a tree, ride a moped with his youngest daughter on it, sit on the lawn with his wife, grill with his girls.
I may have written a poem about the tree in the family’s yard. I know I wrote one about the moment when it looked like the owner didn’t want to leave his youngest daughter to go to work and how she clearly didn’t want him to leave. So sweet.
(No one tell them I wrote a poem, please. It might get awkward.)
And still? I didn’t connect the dots until I saw his car. Some writer, Drema. You’re supposed to notice things.
I brought his older daughter, a barista there, a Ray Bradbury graphic novel I found in a Little Free Library, because she once said she liked his work. She lit up when I gave it to her today; I’m still glowing from her glow.
(Guess I could’ve just walked it across the street. SMH.)
Then an in-law’s cousin dropped in for a coffee and showed me photos of the train collection her late husband left behind.
I had to wipe my eyes and hug her. That kind of grief is still fresh for me, too. (And boy howdy did that man apparently love trains! That was sweet to see.)
(At the other café, the barista recently lost her grandmother. When she told me a couple of days ago, I hugged her as she had hugged me when my mother passed. This is how grief floats between places, and this is what it is to live in a small town.)
Photo: actual photo of the butterfly mentioned below. What shall we name it?
And Then There Were Poems
Last night, I was sulking. Word Raccoon and I hadn’t written much yesterday. I started to spiral AGAIN:
Maybe it’s gone, WORD RACCOON, maybe I’m dried up, maybe I’ve used all my words. That’s it, no more, so many per customer.
(Is this doubt going to be a regular ghost of writing poems? I don’t feel that way about fiction, like I’ve lost everything or never had it. I know it takes concentration. Dedication. That it’s a skill as much as a talent. I just don’t feel as confident or like I know what I’m doing yet with poetry.)
WR just raised an eyebrow and reminded me:
We wrote part of a poem at the doctor’s.
We lived a whole day full of lines. (Dr’s, coffee with a friend, lunch with hubby, gym…)
And I haven’t even mentioned the porch writing yet.
I sat there last night, windows cracked open, lanterns beginning to glow. A couple outside their house kissed just as I glanced over (I swear I wasn’t peeping), and a cat I don’t know came up to the screen door like a summoned muse. Both of those things made it into poems. They had to.
(We don’t have pets because Barry’s allergic to most living things and possibly even me, JK, definitely allergic to Word Raccoon, but I let the cat muse pretend to be mine for a while.)
WR wasn’t thrilled, but I told her the cat could stay as long as it remained outdoors.
And then the angrier I got about not being able to write, the more alive the writing became.
The result? Ten poems from wild-edged ones to almost prose to you-know-you-could-almost-submit that-one–today.
One features Lady Mary from Downton Abbey, because apparently that’s who showed up.
Tentative titles from last night’s wild writing sprint:
Not Even My Doctor
Ten Things that are Mine, All Mine
I’m Not Trying to Be a Poem
The Neighbor’s Cat
Learn to Haunt in a Weekend
How Tasteful
Even My Titles Aren’t Playing Along
I Told You Not to Say That at Brunch
Overserved
Back Row, Bucko
As I said, some are nearly cooked, others just cauterwauling. But they’re mine. They’re here. They get added to the master list as soon as they have a (semi) permanent title.
Meanwhile, Today I woke up at 5 AM for no good reason. So I put the time to use:
Wrote an email to someone curious about MFA programs.
Paid bills.
Re-sent poems to a lit mag after they kindly let me know I’d mismatched them with my cover letter (note: maybe they liked the first poems if they gave me a second shot??).
Walked to the café.
Later today:
I sat across from the town’s colorful soap store and wrote a poem while trying to remember the name of a candy I’ve definitely eaten but cannot recall.
I touched bases with a friend’s mom when she came by for coffee and learned what my young friend has been up to this past year.
I watched a young woman rescue a butterfly and we had a whole tender conversation about it. (She thought it was dead and was going to pick it up to collect it because butterflies remind her of her grandmother. Then she realized it was alive and put it in the planter as I watched. I know, right?)
I almost yelled down the block to a stranger who said, “I live 45 minutes outside Nashville,” because I needed to know which direction.
I overheard someone say, “they used to only come in black and silver,” and still don’t know what they were talking about.
The bookstore owner held up a jumpsuit on a sale rack at a store just down from hers; I told her, “Yes.” It was for her granddaughter, but I stand by my vote: she could rock it.
I reapplied my sunscreen. I remembered to hydrate. I did, technically, write.
The barista asked, “Are you working on something out there?” “Supposed to be,” I said. And I was.
But also? I was gathering. Stories. Fragments. You know, those Wordsworthian things.
And, as I mentioned earlier, I went for an x-ray. They said it could take up to two weeks to get the results because they’re backed up. What?? What’s two more weeks, I guess. We write on. No matter what, WR. We write on.
Today’s Poems-In-Progress (Messy Titles, Be Kind) Life, a Sleeping Butterfly — part prose poem, part soft sigh. (Maybe too soft? Yes, definitely toughen up.)
Americana for Sale — working title only, for vibe check only. Has a bathtub and a human-sized rubber ducky.
Destroying Sentences to Save Them — self-explanatory.
Tomorrow, I’ll do more. Here’s hoping, anyway. Barry has a gig far enough away and running late enough into the evening that I’m skipping it, so I’ll have him drop me at the café. I’ll walk home after creating my face off. (Assuming I don’t get sucked into too many irresistible conversations. Again.) And there’s still tonight. WR’s tapping her paw. The cat’s on the steps again. I have a good feeling about the writing.
“I’m alright with a slow burn…” (So is cube steak, if you treat it right.)
Word Raccoon has a new device she LOVES: a solar-powered charger! It’s barely bigger than my phone, and now when I’m writing outdoors, I don’t have to worry about running out of juice for either my phone or my MacBook. It’s already saved my outdoor writing time more than once, and I’ve had it less than a week.
You can plug it in to charge it or charge it in the sun (that takes a while, but hey, poetic patience). Once charged, though, it juices up your devices fast. And you can plug your device in and still use it.
Highly recommend. Word Raccoon is happy since she does not like to be cooped up indoors! (Not a sponsored post, just a delighted raccoon with gadgets.)
When I told Word Raccoon we were going to the café to write, she said I’d better feed her well when we got back. So I pulled a mystery meat pack out of the freezer and tossed it in the fridge before we left, assuming Future Me would know what to do with it. Actually, I thought it might be boneless chicken thighs, which are versatile AF.
Reader… in truth, I had no idea what I had pulled out.
Thankfully, it was cubed steak. Thin, boneless, quick thawing. By the time we got back from the gym (after the writing), it was no longer frozen. Whew! If you’ve ever played freezer roulette, you know my relief. (If you haven’t, friend, you have to learn to walk on the wild side, at least when it comes to decisions that don’t even matter. It’s a beginning.) Which brings me to another approximate recipe.
🥩 Accidental Stovetop Salisbury Cube Steak with Yellow Squash
What You’ll Need (Emotionally & Otherwise):
4 Servings • 4 cube steaks, sliced into bite-sized “it’ll do” strips • 1 tbsp olive oil (don’t bother measuring, love) • 1 yellow squash, chopped into half-moons Preferably bought small and tender, like it was raised gently in a pumpkin patch and never knew adversity. This is the kind of squash that cooks fast and forgives your past mistakes. • 1 big ol’ onion, sliced thin (We only had red; it worked.) • 2 cloves garlic, minced (or a teaspoon of the lazy jar stuff) • 1 tbsp ketchup (Trust me, it will be ok.) • 1 tbsp mustard (Dijon if you’re feeling flirty, yellow if you’re not) • 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce, aka emotional depth or umami. Condiment note: eyeballing is fine here. Don’t go digging in the drawer for the elusive tablespoon like it’s a cursed talisman – you won’t find it, friend. This is comfort food, not chemistry class. • 1½ cups beef broth (Or, in my case, water + a saved ramen seasoning packet because Word Raccoon lives in the land of chaotic ingenuity) • 1 tbsp cornstarch + 2 tbsp cold water (FYI, that jar you used for overnight oats? It’s perfect if you want to put the ingredients in it and shake, shake, shake your slurry. Or put it in a wee bowl and stir.) • Salt and pepper to taste • Something warm to pour it over: like, oh, leftover pasta, or rice. We are making supper, not a special occasion meal. Let’s get you fed!
What to Do:
1. Steak it up: Heat oil in a big skillet over medium. Toss in the cube steak, no pounding required. Salt, pepper, and brown it like you mean it (5–7 minutes). Be sure it’s all browned or you won’t be happy with the texture, love. Pull it out and set it aside like a moody subplot.
2. Onion meltdown: Same pan, toss in onions. Stir and stare dramatically until they’re soft and golden (5–6 minutes). Add garlic and stir for 1 minute like you’re making decisions. BE CAREFUL OR IT WILL BURN! ASK ME HOW I KNOW!
3. Gravy stage: Combine the ketchup, mustard, and Worcestershire. Stir with a tiny spoon for maximum fun.
4. Pour in the beef broth (or ramen-packet magic water if you’re me and don’t have any other on hand). Let it simmer gently. Now make your slurry (cornstarch + cold water), and stir it into the pan. Let the sauce thicken a bit (2–3 minutes). This can happen fast, so pay attention.
5. The return of the steak (and friends): Add your steak back in. Toss in the squash. Simmer uncovered 5–7 minutes, or until the squash is tender but still holding it together better than you are. Taste. Adjust. Throw in thyme if you’re feeling poetic.
6. Serve with something soft and ready: Ladle over buttery rice or leftover pasta like your supper depends on it. Do not garnish with parsley because parsley is a waste. No one likes that guy.
Closing Thought from Word Raccoon:
I heard back from another literary journal. A sweet rejection that said one of the poems was “almost.”
Which, honestly? Felt both encouraging and like the story of my life. (LOL, but make it literary style.)
I worry sometimes that Word Raccoon has used up all her poems. That the well’s gone dry. That there’s nothing left but scraps and metaphors stuck to the sides of the pan. That maybe we’re writing the same poem five different ways.
So I made dinner out of what we had on hand. I guess, if you think about it, that’s how Word Raccoon makes poems, too. The pantry’s not empty yet. But maybe it’s time we went shopping.
I have some good news to share that is not about writing, but I am going to wait until tomorrow. This post is too long. Word Raccoon is biting at my thumb. Stop it, raccoon! Pardon me while I go fetch some words to feed her.
Word Raccoon got too much sun yesterday. She knows better, but she forgot—so now she’s pink. Not blush-pink. Not beach-glow pink. More like regret-meets-crustacean.
But she also submitted poetry, processed another rejection like she was made for it, and even arrived at the gym all in the same day.
(Accepting rejection is part of the writing gig, loveys. All it really means is: “Not the right place, hon. Try down the block at the Jiffy Lube.” I’ve received some truly encouraging rejections lately.)
Today, she’s writing from home. Not just because the car is gone and we’re not in the mood to wander the neighborhood like a sad poet on foot. But because we stayed up submitting poems, tinkering with lines, and listening to the new Swell Season album, Forward.
Album Details: Forward by The Swell Season
Artists: The Swell Season (Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová)
Release Date: June 13 (or July 11 in some territories, including the U.S.), 2025
Label: Masterkey Sounds & Plateau Records (distributed via Secretly Distribution)
Producer: Sturla Mio Thorisson
Recording Location: Masterkey Studios in Iceland
Musical Contributors:
Marja Gaynor – strings
Bertrand Galen – strings
Joseph Doyle – bass
Piero Perelli – drums and percussion
Track List (8 songs – approx. 36–37 minutes total)
Factory Street Bells
People We Used to Be
Stuck in Reverse
I Leave Everything To You
A Little Sugar
Pretty Stories
Great Weight
Hundred Words
It was a hesitant listen. Because here’s the truth: Once is sacred. And not just because it’s exquisite and tender and broke WR and I open in that quiet way only real art does.
So I listened. Reverently. Warily. And here’s what I’ll say:
The album is welcomely slight, only 37 minutes, as you can see above. I listen to lots of podcasts that are longer than that, but the shortness of the album meant I was able to listen to it multiple times, first with attention, then again while doing chores.
Glen’s voice now has an Eagles-era wear to it, weathered like denim washed too many times. Years of unmitigated screaming will do that. Ask Word Raccoon what howling will do. Now Glen is living in those lower, more comfy sounding notes.
His voice feels conserved now, like he knows the guitar can take the heat, but maybe his vocal cords shouldn’t. That’s wisdom, though I suspect all of us miss some of that touch of fire and broken glass he used to sing with.
Markéta ’s voice? It’s matured into something smooth, like rich olive oil, straight from a bottle on a balcony in Tuscany. Earthy and assured. Just lovely.
She’s more fully present in this album. I can’t help but love that for her, and for us.
(Please, god, no one forward this to them. This is just for you, dear reader. This would be so much easier if it could just be an email, right? Then I wouldn’t have to have a heart attack when I post about John Green worried he’ll read it. Worried he won’t, too. LOL. But that’s not how communicating via blog works, reader.)
Their first duet “People We Used to Be,” felt a bit too self-aware for Word Raccoon.
It’s not bad. Just performative, like it knew it had to be “a Swell Season song” and pressed too hard on the nostalgia keys, or so Word Raccoon says.
Word Raccoons resists feeling pushed by music. Ask her how much she hates it when she’s watching a movie with incidental music that says “cry now.” She’s like, “I will not and you can’t make me.”
Don’t listen to the lyrics of “People We Used to Be,” though, without a hankie.
The last song’s arrangement dipped too close to Up With People territory for me. “Hundred Words” would have sounded better if they hadn’t added in those other voices (is it a children’s choir?), because when it was just their duet at the beginning, it was moving.
Those lyrics are future progressively wrecking me. I would say still, but that would mess with the effect of what I was trying to do and look, I did it anyway.
Word Raccoon said to say that.
The whole album feels more produced, IMO. Less live. Less Once, if you know what I mean. The rawness, the grit, the corner-of-the-room magic?
(Seriously. I don’t like the sound of this particular studio as much. It sounds empty. Music needs warmth to capture and reflect it. I know plenty of people who would argue with that but I said what I said, HERBERT!)
(Messed around and made me yell at Herbert, WR. Eh, that old coot can go…)
Marketa is surer of herself now. She inhabits her vocals, delivers the lyrics like they’re her life.
But maybe it’s unfair to compare it at all to Once. It’s not a sequel. It’s not Once 2: Still Once-ing. It’s something else. A grown-up version of something that once (pardon not one, but now two puns) wrecked us with its simplicity.
Because here’s the truth: That kind of artistic connection? It doesn’t dissolve with the relationship. Their voices still braid. Their music still flickers with that thing that happens when two people understand something sacred in the same key.
The pair remain linked in that way, no matter the headlines, the time passed, the breakups and reconciliations that don’t belong to us.
We’re all more guarded now, in today’s world. Even them.
This album was worth the listen. The more I listen, the more it gets into my “spirits” as they say in Nashville.
That was kinda of intense. Shall we give ourselves breathing room here, babes? Is it time to talk of shoes?
My headphones. We should talk about them.
I have every configuration imaginable: two pairs of AirPods, over-ear headphones, a headband with speakers, even off brand new replacements for the earbuds that should be fine. And more.
But the only ones I actually use in bed? The wired earbuds that came with my iPhone a presidential administration ago.
One earbud doesn’t work. The wire is chewed through in one spot, and honestly, I think Word Raccoon did it.
The one that works controls the volume on my YouTube videos, its most important task. The left one listens when I ask it to, unlike every other piece of tech in this house.
And no, I don’t sleep in AirPods anymore. Because one night, I woke up… and one was in my mouth. Yes. That’s a thing that happened.
Despite my family’s reassurances that it’s “basically impossible” to swallow one in your sleep, I can assure you: It was halfway gone. Word Raccoon dreaming of plums, no doubt. Or maybe she was kissing another raccoon in her sleep.
So now? It’s wired or nothing at night. Safe. Sensible. Embarrassingly old-school. (Like my phone. Let’s not talk about how old it is. It still works.)
Maybe it’s time I order more earbuds, the real brand?
Unrelated:
This morning, Raccoon started harping for me to wake up before six. But I think I’ve calmed her. We revised poems. We submitted some. We hydrated with frozen blueberries. We are dressed for yoga. (The gentle rehab-your-body kind, not that other.) She hasn’t approved the bagel I’d really like her to eat.
She’s still mad about the lack of Coke Zero. She’s glaring at me like I personally insulted her muse.
But I think she wants to write poetry soon. So do I.
We’re not sorry we listened to the album. We’re not sorry we stayed up too late doing the things we love. And we’re definitely not sorry we still feel something when Glen and Markéta sing together.
Even now. Even differently.
Forward isn’t Once. But neither are we.
That doesn’t mean it’s not an album worth hearing.
That was the ending, and I was supposed to stop there, but Word Raccoon is listening to the album still and now “A Little Sugar” is playing and she kinda likes it. It’s definitely backward-looking musically, that one, but it reminds her, too, of this truth: music is to be enjoyed, not endured.
CW: Word Raccoon wrote some angsty, irreverent song lyrics below. I’m just in charge of her care and feeding, not her writing. Proceed with care.
Saturday night, I, the responsible adult part of this writing operation, went to bed. Word Raccoon did not. She stayed up writing poetry. Unsupervised. Again.
I thought she was doing research. Ha!
Sunday morning, I found her with smudged pages, wild hair, and a playlist that could only be described as emo-folk-existential crisis.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
Yup, red ink and glittered covered.
I asked the obvious question:
“What did you do?”
She didn’t answer. She just handed me a page that said:
I wanna mosh-pit my soul/Right into the night. I wanna hit a tornado/ With all of my might.
And:
You gave me dead roses / That you sniffed dry / You love me best / When you watch me cry.
To be clear: sometimes she channels things old and new, things that drift by from outdoors and she’s like, to a passing stranger, “This? Is this yours? I found it floating in a cloud. Like what I did with it?” as people snatch it back and ask Do you mind?
And sometimes, yes, she gets melodramatic and turns the porch light into a metaphor. To be fair, writing on a porch watching darkness fall and solar lights come on and the fireflies in between is pretty romantic. Maybe it’s not her fault. Maybe it’s mine for unwittingly lighting the scene as I was taught to do in creative writing class.
WR is tapping me on the chest.
“You read them wrong; we don’t rhyme poetry. They’re lyrics to a song.”
Oh. Now I get it. Songs are a different matter completely. And this one seems more punk rock than anything. WR…you’re not 17. And what year do you think this is?
To be on the safe side, I’m tweaking her playlist. (She’d been listening to My Chemical Romance, St. Vincent, and Father John Misty—obviously. She knows she has to be careful with the feeling music.)
I thrust a post-poetry writing kit of her treasures into her hands to keep her otherwise occupied:
Two pieces of sea glass. (Because one is never enough.)
A white shell that looks like an ear on one side, the man in the moon on the other
A piece of quartz that wants to be a fire starter
A small piece of driftwood that looks like all that remains of a sea tiki bar
A snack (not pictured, a protein bar; I made her eat it ASAP)
And a phone queued up to John Green reading e.e. cummings’ “o sweet spontaneous” Here’s the link. Don’t tell me you don’t love that poem because…wow!
Before you judge her use of John Green reading poetry again, as soon as you pony up some audio of you reading poetry, dear reader, maybe she won’t need to outsource her poetry needs.
✍️ More Lines from the Chaos Draft of WHAT ARE WE CALLING IT??:
I’m not effing Moses / And even he needed someone / To prop up his arms.
The porch lights flicked on like a lesser sun. / My heart whispered, “I’m undone.”
Rewriting the Laws of Combustion: I burned. I rose. I molted. I chose. I churned. I learned.
I also fed Word Raccoon an album I just realized is newly out. She has opinions, but she wants to listen to it all before sharing. I just realized this may send her right back to midnight poetry writing. Hang on while I go take it back.
And just in case she wasn’t just flirting with the universe Saturday night, I set a playlist curfew last night and strictly enforced it.
It didn’t much matter. She was spent and only wrote a few lines anyway before falling asleep early. When I asked her about it she just said Meh. I have no idea what she means by that.
Oh, silly Word Raccoon. What am I going to do with you?
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