The ground lingers in white, but weekend temperatures guarantee melt. Mojo and Mr. Lee and I walked down to the river yesterday, a bit more chilly down on the bottoms. This morning we'll go up the road to post mail. I have been watching the first disc of ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK. I realize at least some of my mind is sheltered by my upbringing watching scenes in the women's prison which easily enough to imagine, are assaulting when viewed by these older eyes. Assaulting may be too strong; however, I suspect that there is a point to having the viewer feel "assaulted." Prison is an assault to the inmate. My inner dialogue goes, "how the hell did they get actors to do this!" I am intrigued by the characters in this drama and the harshness seems real, if not lighter than reality. I applaud.
Monday, November 24, 2014
60 degrees today, dogs and I hiked around Red Bud and shook the apple tree in the field. Winking light through the trees, the river is high from last night's rain. Going to spend the afternoon piddling in the garden; want to spread some of the chicken manure around roses (Alma's suggestion). Brought Mojo's bed down from the blue house porch yesterday morning and put it in the green house. Hoping to train Mojo to sleep there so that Diane can sleep in when she comes. I am trying to make my schedule more like that of a night owl's; so far, I am failing. I am a morning soul; if I stay up late, I seldom wake after 7.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
It doesn't seem linear, this transit to nearly 70,
I am as old as the friends of my great grandmother,
bosomy flowery perfumed stuffed pastries,
calling out for a hug.
I ran from
as if they might capture vital particles of joy
or fatten the sleekness of my limbs.
Now I understand their summoning,
merely seeking commingling
of their spirits which were not pastries,
but vigorous still
and wanting out.
It was an accomplished group of readers and an entertaining afternoon! I must say, I enjoyed it! Stories by Lucy Adams, Tom McGohey, KT Torrey and Rob Neukirch were particularly fine. Rob's story had us all in stitches; New Floyd in the form of a middle aged massage therapist meets Old Floyd in the form of middle aged suppressed farmers wife. I liked Lucy's story of a high school boy trying to change the trajectory of a development and to honor the memory of his mother. And KT's story of a gay couple was very interesting and i thought masterfully done. Tom's was a literary description of bystanders at the death of a dog on the side of the road.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
When I opened the hen house this morning, all seemed OK; I cracked the ice on their water tub - nothing amiss. That was at 8; I had waited for the temperature to warm up from 15 degrees. By noon I brought scraps and checked for an egg. On the floor was dead white hen, not far from where she would have landed when she jumped off her perch in one of the laying boxes. White hen was consolation chick when the science experiment to incubate eggs failed miserably. She never seemed acclimated to life outside. She molted at the wrong time, like in November. She always seemed separate from the others - none of whom are white, except for the rooster. And she was low on the pecking order. I took her body up Red Bud to lie on top of an old and dense mound of pine branches - high enough to escape Mojo - but good for a sky funeral.