Syndication

"There is not enough time to do all the nothing we want to do."

--Bill Watterson

Divine Intervention

Today I have to write four pieces, then meet my advisor, then go to a writer's party.

I need help.

I do have my shorts on with the glow-in-the-dark cat faces.

I'm not sure that's enough. I may need popsicles as well.

It will be hot. I will not leave my house all day.

Perhaps in my religion, popsicles will be a communion host.

Salvacion Tipica

Trópico Verde

Verde lluvia, vertiene y territorio
Verde el especio, la luz verde.
El clima verde. Verdes las colinas.
Las hondonadas y los ríos verdes.
Un lago verde del valle. La montaña
verdeazul, verdemar, verdeprofundo.
Lo cerca y lo lejano en aire verde.
Verde lluvia, vertiene y territorio.

Roto temblor el verde de los plátanos.
Casi líquida lágrima, el verdor
del sauce. El verde
militar del café, el verdor húmedo
de junco, cana y lirio. Verde música
en el órgano, -- oh verde viento! del bambú.
La plata verde
del eucalípto. El verde silencioso
de los pastos, las malvas, las legumbres.

Verde lluvia, vertiene y territorio.
De mi sangre saltó una estrella verde.
Y verdin, verdinal y verdolaga,
mayo estira su lluvia hasta diciembre
en el trópico verde.

Bubbles

The NYT reported things today that I would not otherwise have ever known. Beverly married a man going through a divorce who fought for custody of his kids back in the fifties in Cleveland, and for that, she says, “Peter was ostracized by Cleveland’s rinky-dink version of high society.”

She had two children of her own, a girl Meredith, who was discovered to be profoundly deaf at 2 years old; and a boy Peter, born with severe mental retardation complicated by it is thought now, autism. She received these pieces of news within six weeks of each other. She went back to work, and sang for twenty more years.

"[Before the children's diagnoses] I was a combination of everyone else’s ideas: the director, the conductor, the tenor. After I came back, I talked back. I stopped caring what anyone else thought.

“I began to have a good time.”

Oh! Can I please remember this forever. What is this feeling called, reading stories like this--

Families

Street musician playing down the long corridor to the BART exit:

o/~ I need a twenty-dollar bill
in my hat/I need a twenty-dollar bill
in my hat
I need a twenty-dollar bill
in my hat
I need a twenty-dollar bill
in my hat
I gotta feed my dog,
I gotta feed my cat.
o/~

The Right Stuff

This picture was taken at Christmastime five years ago (wow). My parents invited me to tag along on a business trip to Santa Monica with the promise of a visit to the Getty the next day. After his client dinner, my dad came whooping back to the hotel room, opened up the minibar, pulled out a pack of peanut M&Ms and started jumping on my bed. My stepmother gave us a long look, turned her back to that side of the room, and opened her Joan Didion.

In this shot, I think he looks like a cross between Denny on "Boston Legal" and an astronaut from the sixties.

More striking for me, however, is how we've arrived at being exactly the same height.

And those gams! Sexy boy.

A Wait and See Attitude

Sometimes it's best to hide out in the pink cave and let a world go about its business without the benefit of your participation.