The Chair Whisperer

I spent an entire Tuesday afternoon with this chair. I feel we became intimate, but I know it's still keeping secrets.

I'm patiently waiting, but sometimes patience feels a little itchy and humid all at the same time.

I can already feel it breathing down my neck; the weirdness, the strangeness, the emptiness of it. I always get a little weird by the end of March. I've been this way for nine years now. By April 17th I'm amazingly numb and sometime that night I realized I've made it through that day once again. I'll never grow accustomed to saying it's been 9 years since, it's been 10 years since, it's been 25 years since but it will come even if I don't utter it.

They had Easter Egg colored baby fingers and my heart today. Had they asked, we could have dyed that too!

"Celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day!

The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends on April 17.

Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores."

poets.org

First

The first day of spring has been greeted with snow! Ironic really.

Novella

I decided today while I was thinking under a blue sky, that I am most like a Steve Martin novella: surprisingly short, surprisingly complete, no time to fool around, full of words, wit, and all heart.

I'm just going to set in the sunshine today.

Scary's West

So occasionally I skim over the "blogs of notice" section. I do this because I'm often too lazy to find interesting blogs on my own and I like it when someone else tells me what to do and makes decisions for me. Often these blogs aren't that great, but this one is http://scaryswest.blogspot.com/
It's a lady in Montana who documents her life on a ranch. The pictures are amazing and the words are good too(two of my favorite things you know?). It's good medicine when you need your Montana fix.

Channeling Walt

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

1
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Signs

Spring peepers singing
Robins
unsteady baby calf......moo
little purple flowers
birthing tulips
New neighbors in dirt beds
The smell of possibility
GREEEEEEEN GRASS
budding Trees
sweet showers
rustic hammock cradled by a polite march wind
heavy sweaters in clear boxes
warm sunshine sleeping on my pillow

Missing Missoula

This very morning, before my eyes even cracked the surface of my eyelids I was seeing a Missoula morning. Missoula is always creeping on the back of my eyelids(and this whole time the world thought it was geographically located in Montana!)
I decided to get online and search for Missoula there too. It seems Missoula is everywhere, omnipresent.
This site helped by double vision
http://www.missoulapeacesign.com/

And so does this one
http://www.saroff.com/

“She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness.”
~Oscar Wilde

Self Preservation

Where the sidewalk ends.

Through the Looking Glass

Song of Myself.










Mark Story told me I needed to put myself in my work more. I'm sure I took this more literally than I needed too.