Saturday, April 30, 2011

Saturday in CinCity. The Whoopee!! Called Off Work Due to Low Census Edition.


Went to the ballet last night with Hubby to see Over the Rhine, a local band a step shy from fame, performing with the dance company.

Or, rather the dance company performed an homage to the band. The affection between the two groups of talent was electric and palpable. Not every dance/song combination hit it, but the many that did were transcendent. The moments that give you goosebumps. Really. It was that good.

It's my weekend to work, but received an early morning phone call asking did I want to stay home? Well, of course I do. The sun is shining. I have schmoodles of homework. Hubby and HoneyHaired will be at work so perhaps I could cleanse some of the flotsum jetsum out of the corners and crevices of this house. I could even make a little dinner if I damn well wanted to. Which, maybe I will and maybe I won't.

First,I want to read a critical analysis of a dietary business plan involving a bariatric surgical center and post a thoughtful response on our student group discussion board. Yes, indeedy, of course I do. Pot of coffee is on and yellow marker is in hand.

Hoping your week's end is sunny and restful and full of helpful, unexpected surprises. "...ridiculous and sublime..."



Clay County

by John Hodgen

Just past Kellie Mae's Klip 'n' Dip Beauty Salon
and the cement slab, cinder blocks, and rusty tin roof
of the Lawtey Grace Community Evangelical Church,
and behind the saw grass and scrub brush along Pitchkettle Road,
a young black girl stands dawdling with one foot behind the other,
her toe digging rhythmically into the red clay of her driveway,
her heel wagging cozily like a cat's tail, a metronome,
as she talks to a young man on a motorcycle,
his red helmet still on, true biker of love.

And just before the buckwheat field that opens lonely as grace,
the field with the massive trees in the middle, shattered by
lightning,
a slender roan horse feeds under its basilica of broken branches,
because he knows that is the place
where the soft tufts of grass
taste the sweetest.

please note: ballet photo by Jennifer Denham
photo of CinCity by kyfirefighter

Thursday, April 28, 2011

4am Seems a Little Early for an Old Movie, but Some Folks are Just Big, Ole Romantics




here's to love...long may it last

Afraid So

by Jeanne Marie Beaumont




Is it starting to rain?
Did the check bounce?
Are we out of coffee?
Is this going to hurt?
Could you lose your job?
Did the glass break?
Was the baggage misrouted?
Will this go on my record?
Are you missing much money?
Was anyone injured?
Is the traffic heavy?
Do I have to remove my clothes?
Will it leave a scar?
Must you go?
Will this be in the papers?
Is my time up already?
Are we seeing the understudy?
Will it affect my eyesight?
Did all the books burn?
Are you still smoking?
Is the bone broken?
Will I have to put him to sleep?
Was the car totaled?
Am I responsible for these charges?
Are you contagious?
Will we have to wait long?
Is the runway icy?
Was the gun loaded?
Could this cause side effects?
Do you know who betrayed you?
Is the wound infected?
Are we lost?
Will it get any worse?

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

One of Those Weeks...


Things have been been discombobulated here. Awry as it were. HoneyHaired was in a car accident--she's fine, car's not, and she has a ticket to pay. Squirrels have been falling down a venting pipe and landing above the hot water heater where they succomb to carbon monoxide, excessive heat, or both, my computer up and died, and Finance in Healthcare is kicking my ass. 4 credit hours...? More like 4 hours every morning and 4 hours every afternoon that I'm off. I'd share the finer details, but it's Greek to me. But, 5 more weeks.

So, just a quick drop in and then I'm planning on watching Glee and going to bed. Perhaps not in that order. It's been several of one of those weeks and still one of those days...:>)


To Be Continued: A Parable


by Samuel Hazo

It's like a play.
Or rather
the revival of a play in which
you're still the main character.
The set, the lighting and the stage
are what they were, but not
the cast.
Different actors
have the roles that other actors
acted when the play first
ran.
You make comparisons
but then accept the differences
as given.
Somehow you only feel
secure in character but alien
to all the others on the stage.
Their names will keep on changing
as the run resumes with younger
people in older roles.
The script
will stay the same.
You know
your lines by heart but try
to say them in a different voice
each night.
The other actors
say your character and you
are one.
Sometimes this seems
a sentence, sometimes a challenge.
Either way you keep on playing
your part.
You have no choice.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Boulevard du Montparnasse

by Mary Jo Salter




Once, in a doorway in Paris, I saw
the most beautiful couple in the world.
They were each the single most beautiful thing in the world.
She could have been sixteen, perhaps; he twenty.
Their skin was the same shade of black: like a shiny Steinway.
And they stood there like a four-legged instrument
of a passion so grand one could barely imagine them
ever working, or eating, or reading magazine.
Even they could hardly believe it.
Her hands gripped his belt loops, as they found each other's eyes,
because beauty like this must be held onto,
could easily run away on the power
of his long, lean thighs; or the tiny feet of her laughter.
I thought: now I will write a poem,
set in a doorway on the Boulevard du Mont Parnasse,
in which the brutishness of time
rates only a mention; I will say simply —
that if either one should ever love another,
a greater beauty shall not be the cause.

please note: photo by YackNonch on flickr

Monday, April 11, 2011

A Weekend at Work and Five Deaths.

After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions

by Martha Silano





I'm thinking today of how we hold it together,
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack

of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash

into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked

transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,

comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss

or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,

lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.

Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires

an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,

check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,

the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,

and a child and her father cross the glistening street.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Forgiveness

by Terence Winch


Father Cahir kept us holy.
He smoked cigars in the confessional.
He had a distracted air about him,
as though he wasn't sure what
he was supposed to do next.



I don't remember what he taught.
History, probably. It was his
liberal attitude as a confessor
that made him a legend.

No matter what you confessed to,
he always barked out the same penance:
"Three Hail Marys and a Good Act
of Contrition. Next!" So we tested
this leniency, confessing
to rape, murder, burglary.

Cahir paid no attention.
He knew we were a bunch
of high school punks.
Puffing his cigar,
he'd issue his standard
penance and absolve all sins,
real or imagined,
with godlike aloofness,
his vast indifference to
or total acceptance of the darkness
within the human soul
exactly how I hope the deity
regards us. Take forgiveness
any way you can get it.

please note: photo by two stout monks on flickr

Monday, April 4, 2011

"Monday, Monday, Can't Trust that Day..."

Fire

by Wyatt Townley



It's only the body
It's only a hip joint
It's just a bulging disc
It's only weather
It's only your heart
It's a shoulder who needs it
This happens all the time
It's very common
It's unusual
For people your age
For people your age
You're in great shape
Remarkable shape
It's nothing you did
The main thing is
It's temporary
It's only a doll
In a house that's burning

please note: photo art by Paul Politis. Title by The Mamas and the Papas.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Saturday in CinCity. The Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax, of Cabbages and Kings Edition.



The end of a week off work, but the beginning week of spring quarter and the same projects I worked on through spring break, while I was working are ever present and still no closer to being approved by IRB. I'm beginning to think that department is managed by the Red Queen. The gist is, I don't feel refreshed and raring to go. I feel tired and thoroughly frustrated.

Hubby was kind enough to go on multiple mini-adventures with me during this cold and rainy week. We saw "Winston Churchill. Walking With Destiny."




And we saw the Cleopatra exhibit





and went to farmers' markets and shot some pool at a local neighborhood bar, but really what I did and where my mind kept drifting back to was my damned Finance class. As if finance as a subject is not hard enough, this one switched to being completely on-line and printing off the readings alone is enough to bankrupt a grrrl. And that's where I'm off to today. The library. For more reading. About finance in healthcare. Two words--ain't good.




Books

by Billie Collins


From the heart of this dark, evacuated campus
I can hear the library humming in the night,
a choir of authors murmuring inside their books
along the unlit, alphabetical shelves,
Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son,
each one stitched into his own private coat,
together forming a low, gigantic chord of language.

I picture a figure in the act of reading,
shoes on a desk, head tilted into the wind of a book,
a man in two worlds, holding the rope of his tie
as the suicide of lovers saturates a page,
or lighting a cigarette in the middle of a theorem.
He moves from paragraph to paragraph
as if touring a house of endless, paneled rooms.

I hear the voice of my mother reading to me
from a chair facing the bed, books about horses and dogs,
and inside her voice lie other distant sounds,
the horrors of a stable ablaze in the night,
a bark that is moving toward the brink of speech.

I watch myself building bookshelves in college,
walls within walls, as rain soaks New England,
or standing in a bookstore in a trench coat.

I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves,
straining in circles of light to find more light
until the line of words becomes a trail of crumbs
that we follow across a page of fresh snow;

when evening is shadowing the forest
and small birds flutter down to consume the crumbs,
we have to listen hard to hear the voices
of the boy and his sister receding into the woods.



"The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings
And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wigs
Calloo, Callay, come run away
With the cabbages and kings."