Below you'll find a list of all posts that have been categorized as “Musings”
I suppose I have to start walking with a camera. I see all kinds of arty, interesting, kooky, surprising things whenever I walk around our neighborhood. I was coming down Emerson, the dirt-road-in-the-city blocks and had just returned to asphalt. There on the corner between NE 29th and NE 30th sat a small tin bucket filled with narrow fabric straps…
I am writing by hand now every day. Have been since the middle of August, my mad money spent on postcard stamps. Pick up the pen, find the message that goes on the card I am scrawling for a voter in a state that is not this one, and get to work
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Out the window, Wednesday, there’s still life, flora and fauna, chittering nut hatches, bleating red-tailed squirrels. One of my cats sits at the base of a Doug fir, waiting, hoping, but the odds are against him, just like they are against me, too, in spite of all my pretending that I’ll figure it out, find the answer, we end up the same, dead in the end…
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I have taken many trains across these United States. Many of them have romantic-sounding names—the Coast Starlight, the Empire Builder, the Capitol Limited, the California Zephyr, and the Texas Eagle are the names of a few
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It’s nearly nine p.m., a July summer night. I’m sitting out in our garden on one of the new chairs that go with the new table where four can comfortably sit, even eat—en plein air entertaining finally and at long last. It’s actually quite nice to have a large enough table. I put hydrangea in a vase in the center and even with my sunset clutter—telephone, two magazines, a glass of white wine—there’s still plenty of room to breathe. Even my pink and orange oilcloth from Corvallis days fits. Maybe this will become my new summer writing room. Especially this time of day when the sun is nearly down and there’s no glare on the iBook screen
We are headed to Whidbey Island in Washington State on Thursday via Port Townsend. The Ioniq5 gets its first electric road trip test and then some! We will motor the Olympic Peninsula then travel by ferry to visit with dear friends after half a year of not much travel, health crises, assorted this and that. There will be a parade in Coupeville on Saturday I believe and we are going to march in it along with other volunteers who celebrate and promote the public library and all of its good works on that island. And I am going to sport my clear backpack full of books that far too many want to ban. Margaret Atwood. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Toni Morrison. George Orwell. The 1619 Project. Harper Lee. Toni Morrison again
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We are still a week away from the official vernal equinox, when the sun crosses the celestial equator making its way to the north. I just learned from a Duck Duck Go search that spring arrives a half-day or so earlier than usual because 2024 is a leap year. It will be dark when it finally hits, just after eight p.m. Pacific Daylight Time. Unlike today, the first bright one after what felt like a forever of gray and cold and windy and wet Pacific Northwest days. Walking around, celebrating an afternoon of sun, the streets are muddy, littered with fallen branches, matted leaves along the curbs and in the storm drains—the detritus of a winter that had its moments of harsh and formidable patches, that ground me, for one, down, made me want to hide inside with book after library book…
The clocks do their foolishness also known as moving one hour ahead tonight. This late winter in the Pacific Northwest has been unseasonably cold; the first daffodil in our garden—opened today—is usually parading its yellow trumpet many weeks earlier than this…
Maybe it is a truism that all poets should at one point in their evolution as writers pen an ars poetica, a poem that explains or meditates on the art of poetry itself. Is this simply literary navel-gazing? An egocentric exercise in defending one’s own predilections, eccentricities, and writerly tics? Perhaps all of these questions could be answered with a resounding yes. But, for me, I still find value in attempting to wrestle with the “why” of poetry, the “how” of the poet herself. Even if the answers do and should evolve over time. …
An heirloom narcissus that, strangely, insisted on blooming starting back in December and is now slayed and then some by our recent ice-ocalypse. Which still refuses to thaw as temperatures hover (barely) above 32 degrees Fahrenheit…
