Monday night. Rain gone for a bit, well, the past two days. Which translates, predictably, to colder temperatures here. E-heat just kicked on in spite of the wood stove in front of which two blue-eyed, half-Siamese cats lounge on Presidential rockers…
Here I am. Back to my life. C. gone, back to Ithaca, his home, the sense of home I gave him, all those years living there, I guess…
We’ve been back two days from our trip to western Tennessee, Nashville then Memphis via the Natchez Trace. I’m finding it hard to construct a coherent narrative of everything we saw and did.Maybe that’s all a travel tale ever really is, a patchwork of sights, tastes, and sounds?…
Medieval holiday music on the radio, Trio Medieval, singing Norwegian Christmas music, three women’s a cappella voices, the rain on the roof, the ground outside becomes an accompaniment, quiet drumbeat rhythm rather than the bleak…
The day’s light disappears white and almost icy blue below the hills I can see from this upstairs window. It’s already darker behind me, the side of the house that faces east. Can a mood lift, a day be better simply because it isn’t raining? Because I accomplished something like setting my web site up…
Photo by Brocken Inaglory Colder out there today. Winter in western Oregon. The light becomes lyrical. I go out to empty the woodstove ashes in …
A day here at the Oxbow compound. Going nowhere. Wrote a brief bio and statement of my poetry aesthetics for the next class I’m taking through Writers on the Net. To the tune of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto #5 performed by Treviso’s I Sonatori de la Gioiosa Marca at the Royal Castle, Warsaw…
These stanzas spoke to me this morning. Thanks to Coleman Barks for his wonderful translation as always: “But don’t be satisfied with stories, how things …
I’m supposed to be searching for some epiphany I can write about in the style of early James Joyce. But instead, today has been yawning. A drive to/from foggy Newport on the Pacific Ocean to retrieve a mattress and a television set from an outdoor patio…
Watching Part II of the excellent, fascinating Martin Scorcese documentary, No Direction Home, about Bob Dylan. The first thing: Dylan’s speaking voice is ordinary, pedestrian, the guy down the street, a regular fellow, tinge of Iron Range Minnesota…
