Country Life, Part Deux--
R. and I fear something has died in the cold air return of our furnace. There is a funky smell looming. I've burned incense, R. sprayed some awful "violet field" spray, which I think is actually worse than the scent of death. We have each named the smell. I call it sauerkraut. D. calls it feet. R. calls it dead mouse. We hope it passes soon. I'm running out of incense.
Snow is what happens when you're making other plans--
If you haven't figured it out, no one in the NW knows how to deal with snow or cold weather. Tomorrow our local schools have already been closed for fear of ice. Can I tell you it's not raining (nor is there any prediction of rain) and our roads are bare. I think the person making the call just wants a day off, which is fair. We all want to disappear into the couch once in a while.
I have spent the last two days sledding across my neighbor's yard. I have rode over the sprigs of blackberry bushes and the petals of clover. I watched an island become covered in a white cape while I played superhero soaring over an icy field. I have walked up that hill until my legs hurt and realized I am much older than the age I keep in my mind, in my heart. Still, there's nothing better than flying. I almost went back into the house to get my camera, but I knew nothing would ever compare to how I felt. Again, like trying to capture the sunset, like trying to capture the moments when you feel most alive.
Poets Writing From a Box--
I guess that is what I'm trying to do in my poetry. I want to capture the moments when everything seems to be breathless, the times when it feels as if your life comes with its own soundtrack and that scene was once in movie that you starred in. I'm failing miserably at this. Sometimes I wish poetry books came with a CD you could listen to while you read the poems, maybe the music that was in the background when the poet was writing.
I think Curious George (the movie) was better because Jack Johnson was singing in the background. Otherwise, it's just that silly monkey. How to make poetry breathless. There's that not-so-great movie with Richard Gere where he is left with that blinking heart. I can tell you nothing about that movie except I remember his standing there with that blinking heart around his neck and turning. What do I remember of poems?
There was a summer I couldn't stop reading the same book over and over. Now sometimes I find myself skimming, searching for that one poem that will change me. Sometimes the book feels so much like an advertisement, "The poetry book has a zippered center for interior storage. The poetry book is without handles so that it may be carried as a clutch. The fancy cover (opposite view) keeps the reader believing she is interested. Comes in tan, black, or beige. Gift box available." There is an interior worry in me that I am only offering a place for bookmarks.
