It's 1 a.m., Do You Know Where Your Mind Is?

I sure don't. I seem to be suffering from one of those prolonged bouts of puttering/cleaning/finding anything at all I can possibly do that will keep me from going to bed. Why am I so afraid of the bed tonight? It's a mystery. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that the number of trivial things I can find to occupy myself in the middle of the night is infinite.

For example, I just spent an absurd amount of time analyzing the demographics of a tub of Trader Joe's Organic Animal Crackers left over from my birthday party last Saturday. Okay, so I didn't do a full census on percentages of different animal types within the population, but I do know that there are thirteen different animals represented in the collection. I say represented because out of those thirteen, only three are positively identifiable as a specific creature that inhabits our planet. There is a camel, recognizable by its hump and longish neck, a horse, made horselike by its suggestion of mane and a long nose, and a cow with a little stub by the back leg/s that must be meant to look like an udder. Of the more vague varieties, one of the blobby-shaped cookies looks sort of like a bear, and another makes me think of a goat although I can't exactly figure out why, and yet another is surely meant to be an elephant but is totally frightening to behold and would make any real elephant stomp its big feet in terror and dismay.

I'm a bit dismayed by the species bias represented in this collection of animals. Every single one is a large land mammal--I know that you are asking how I can be sure of this when I just stated how amorphous most of the shapes are. Well, they've all got four legs and just, well, they just LOOK like big land mammals, all right? There are definitely no wings, flippers, or fins in the bunch. No cute little rodent ears or tails. No centipedes. No bats. And I'm absolutely positive that no one even considered putting a South African clawed toad in there. If you want to dispute my assertions, by all means go get yourself your own tub of animal crackers to pore through. Just make sure it's at least 12:40 a.m. before you start.

Heretic Blues

I've started many exciting literary journeys of late, but not a one has made it to the "published" sphere of this blog space. I want to remedy this; my fans are counting on me! (Oh, the joys of tongue-in-cheek phrasing) So without further ado or snide, self-deprecating remarks, here's a post for you--freshly raised from the dead; reanimated if you will; saved from the purgatory of the draft folder:

It's tough being a heathen in a country that celebrates a lot of Christian holidays. Sometimes it really gets in the way of my daily routine. Like today, for example: Jesus screwed up my laundry. Boy, did he ever!

I have only recently begun enjoying the luxury of having days off. Because I was working so much previously, my household duties have been shirked and bypassed and overlooked and just generally not done. I am just now beginning to catch up. As you might imagine, working seven days a week and not having access to a washing machine outside of a laundromat, my laundry has gotten a little out of hand. Today, however, I woke up happy, knowing that I could finally tackle the mountain of accumulated textiles in my basket. I had big plans. I was going to put three and a half loads in one of those giant machines at the laundromat, which would have been done washing in only 23 minutes. Then I was planning on bringing it all home to dry, which would allow me the time to finish my state taxes and do my nebulizer medication before I went in to work. The post-brewery schedule: a nice run and some really vigorous housecleaning. Such grandiose plans. But alas, it was not to be. Jesus had other ideas.

It's Easter!












Because the whole country has to screech to a halt in homage to a cool dude who died 2,000 years ago, and whose magical resurrection from said expiration is celebrated by 3/4 of our nation's citizens, the laundromat is closed and I am screwed. I ended up getting to wash only one small load of the whole towering mess, and that was accomplished late at night by sneaking into the laundry room of a friend's apartment complex. I don't like doing stealth laundry. It makes me feel morally compromised. And being sneaky and morally compromised on Easter seems even more wrong and depraved than it would on any other day. All this stress and guilt and philosophical hand-wringing--all over a pile of laundry.

Dang, Jesus, give me a break!

Ah well, I can still rest peacefully tonight because he loves me anyway, according to all the bumperstickers...he's a nice guy and all.

An Offering

Since I'm still having a fairly prolonged bout of writer's block, I'm rewriting an older unpublished post. Remember back in February when I was so pleased about finally writing a poem after a several-year hiatus? (I actually wrote two, but that's hardly the point) Well, here it is at last--I've decided to share it after all. I’ve tweaked it a bit since its first inception, and I’m sure I’ll continue to edit, but please enjoy my first foray back into the short verse world of words. Hmmmm, that last phrase sounded nice, too...

I know I said this before, but I think it's really worth emphasizing--it's hard for me to publicize my writing. Sure, I write on this public blog all the time, but poetry is another matter. It's so much more intensely personal, and I can't explain precisely why. After all, this poem isn't about me in any way. But I suppose it is about me in the way that poetry reflects the deepest and most personal core of my soul; the things that make me who I am. It's like peeling open my ribcage and showing you what's inside--a bit uncomfortable.

With that said, the other poem I posted back in February seemed to cure me of my stage fright--nothing untoward happened as a result; the world continued to zoom around the sun the same old way it has for millennia; no lambs laid down with lions, and nobody wrote me any hate mail. I think I'm okay. So, enough preamble (it's way longer than the poem!), here it is:

Summer

August days are neverending--
the unyeilding phalanx of noon
marches its way across the entire day,
claiming everything in its path.
endless afternoons paint blinding yellows
across landscapes
bleaching houses to bone.
Only when the sun has recalled its army
can we lift our chests to draw full breaths.
Flattened cities rise again
as Autumn's children filter lightly
through the streets,
preceded by the thousand bells
of their bronze and silver laughter.

2-11-09

Apologies to my friend Summer, who is neither phalanx-like nor oppressive. She’s quite the opposite--probably named after the positive qualities that most people associate with the season: carefree days, warm rays of sunshine and lilting waves, a lightness of being.

I think I like this poem, but I'm not sure yet. What matters most to me is that it felt really good to write it. I'm satisfied with that.