While Rome burns.

Last week, the historian and I said we would start writing letters, after Oregon. We haven't started writing them yet, but we need to start. I could write here about what I found in my purse or on my desk or the beautiful pink cosmos that stopped my breath, just about, this morning. But some days, even if I want to, I just can't.

I know people, friends, at Northern Arizona University, but then, that's not really the point. It could be any one of us. It could be people I love or people I don't know. But it shouldn't be any of us. By 'us,' I mean 'anyone at all.'

My friend Lynn said, I'm writing to the president and congressmen and the mayor and anyone else who strikes my fancy. This seems to me like the only thing to do right now.

Here's how to find your congressman's address.
Here's how to find your senator's address.

You'll have to find your own mayor.

Sometimes, you just have to write a letter saying, enough is enough. I promise you, that is what I will do.

Open letter to my oven.

There you sit, in the oven-corner, blank, white, with no expression. I know, that's only because I pulled out all your wires, the ones that gave you a clock face and the ability to register heat and control the cooking, and so forth. Also, those wires powered your manic beeping, so, you know, I guess I kind of had to kill you.

But you were totally asking for it.

just sitting there like
a son of a bitch.

What's annoying, now, is that I make the categorical move--dinner--and think of things that I could bake. Or roast. In general, things that require a working oven. Well, too bad, because I pulled your wires, so no more baking or roasting or things that require a working oven. It's all stovetop now. Nothing but noodles and stir fry.

I feel like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story, and I don't like it. You and your tell-tale beep.

Oven, you are there and not there.

Oven, I can't quit you, but you are getting on my nerves. You can't do one damn thing except be there, taking up oven-space in the cabinet built specially for you, and enacting the form of an oven but with no function.

It's like your tiny corner of the kitchen is a model home made out of broken things. Where are the cookies and casseroles of yesteryear?

Ugh, I have got to go to Lowe's,

htms

Possibly too much fun?

Today, I went in to work for three--I just don't know how to make this any clearer to you: THREE--meetings. For the love of everything holy.

But before that, I woke up and felt sick. Sick from driving across I-80 forth and back, one day after another? Sick from looking at too much beauty in the mountains? Sick from holding a baby and playing with children and laughing with my kids? Sick from watching an owl over a meadow?

In my tiny kingdom of what is fair and what is right, being sick in the summer is not fair or right. I will also add that going to meetings is a gross abuse of governmental power, or something. But then I'm the dummy who said yes.

SIGH.

The good news is, when I came home from my meetings, the sick said to me TAKE A NAP RIGHT NOW. And so I did. This nap was epic and dramatic, because there was a great rain shower, preceded by a consternation of wind, and I woke up just enough to register that it was happening. And then went back to sleep.

Now, the sick is telling me I HAVE A HEADACHE and GO THE HELL TO BED. Which I will, once I report to you that

(a) there are some amazing murals, including portraits of Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta, in my neighborhood, on the outside walls of Taqueria Azteca de Oro, which
(b) some people, apparently, have complained about to
(c) the city, which has told the restaurant that it needs to take the murals down, or face a $100 a day fine. (You can read more about it here.) However:
(d) at the City Council tonight, when the restaurant owner and the artist spoke, the Council agreed to
(e) hold off on the fines for a month while they work on a better resolution. Meanwhile,
(f) I wrote to my city councilman:

Dear City Councilman [Name]:

I recently heard that the city of West Jordan has received complaints about murals on a local restaurant, Taqueria Azteca de Oro, and that there was an order to the restaurant owner to take them down.

I live just around the corner from this restaurant. These murals are beautiful works of art, and honor American heroes that we should all be proud of. Moreover, they are a meaningful recognition of one of the growing demographics of our community, the many people who live, work, and contribute to our city, our state and our country. 

West Jordan should rethink its approach here. I understand that at the City Council meeting tonight, there was an agreement to slow down and explore possible compromises. This is a step in the right direction. 

I wanted you to hear from me, one of your constituents in your district: I love these murals. They are a great improvement over the derelict and grubby appearance of the business in the past, and made me feel hopeful that the business would thrive. Please do everything you can to make sure that we treat these murals as works of public art, honoring our collective cultural heritage.  

Thanks very much,
htms

He wrote back to me licketysplit:

Dear htms: 

I completely agree with everything you said. I grew up here and have seen the efforts the owner has made to improve the property. I think it's crazy that we have made it this far without code that allows for murals (since they aren't specifically called out the are misclassified in such a way they fall under the sign ordinance that doesn't allow for more than 15% coverage on a wall. The code needs to be revised. 

Staff has given him a 30 day extension right out of the gate and I've already started to work with Council to find ways to retain the mural. I spoke with Miguel (owner) earlier tonight and will keep working with him and staff to find a good resolution. We already have two solid approaches that have been given to Legal to research. I'm hoping for a speedy resolution (speedy by government standards).  

Thanks for taking time to share your thoughts. 

Regards,
Your City Councilman.

The people! This makes me hopeful! I will be walking to the restaurant tomorrow for a vigil, and hoping for a solution that preserves this remarkable work of art.

Short letters.

Dear day after a holiday weekend,

I was not delighted to wake up to you, day after a holiday weekend. Even if the holiday was the Fourth of July and even if I happen to be a grouch about that holiday, I was still sorry to see Monday come rolling around. Even if I am not teaching this summer, and thus every day is pretty much the same to me.

Because today, I had many appointments and places to be. Even if the appointments were all enjoyable. Still.

Okay, it wasn't that bad.

Actually, it was pretty much all good.

Day after a holiday weekend, never mind.

(htms)

*

Dear beautiful new phlox,

The lady we bought you from said that in the mornings, you'd appear to be blue. And in the evening, purple, or even pink.

I thought, sure, plant lady, I think you're a little 'plant crazy.'

But this morning, as I pulled out of the garage and cast a careless glance at you, sure enough: blue.

This evening? pinkish purple.

Don't think I'm not going to document this tomorrow. You know: science.

Are you magic? I think you might be magic.

I wish I had bought more of you--

htms

**

Dear hipster restaurant,

All of your dishes may have had slightly too precise descriptions on the menu, with all the ingredients listed, almost recipes instead of short descriptions. And your portrait of --was it Porter Rockwell? on the wall, along with the one of the dead pheasant and also maybe a crusty old revolver? A little too Mumford and Sons, perhaps. (I am not sure I used that adjective correctly.)

However: everything was delicious. Our server was a dream, and charming to boot. And we had a swell time.

Carry on, you mixologist gangsters--

htms

Thank you notes.

Dear Omelet,

This morning at the cafe, you lay on my plate, Omelet, folded so neatly, semicircular, enfolding feta and avocado and onion, aside fried potatoes and sourdough toast, holding the promise that if I would just eat you, I would not be hungry for hours upon hours.

I totally needed that today, so thank you for being a promise-keeper.

sincerely,

htms

*

Dear Candidate for Student Body Office,

I'm sorry that I really can't take the whole Student Body Office thing very seriously. You, as a person? I totally take you, personally, seriously. Just not the SBO thing.

But that popcorn machine out there in the commons, and the popcorn you were giving away to make people remember you and vote for you? Thank you for the popcorn. That popcorn was legit.

I would vote for the popcorn, for real,

htms

**

Dear Fugitive Sweet,

First of all: I was entirely grateful for the Thai food that was brought into the long, long, long-ass meeting today at five. It was delicious and sustaining and lifted all our spirits. So good!

I suppose it's churlish to note that a little sweet would have been so choice at that juncture--the post-Thai-food juncture. A bit of ice cream, a cookie? Would have been perfect.

The fact that you weren't there made me miss you all the more, Fugitive Sweet. Am I thanking you for not being there? I guess this isn't a thank you note, not really.

Luckily, a Girl Scout cookie awaited me at home.

Okay: four.

htms

Short notes.

Dear thought that pulled me by the ears out of almost-sleep at 1:45 a.m.,

I know: it's true, in the digital-virtual-internet world, there is not just one public, there are many publics--fractional publics, even intimate publics--and therefore, when we talk about publishing, we are talking about multiple forms of publishing, and this, this makes all the difference.

And yes: maybe I should write a series of essays about this. And maybe it should, maybe, be the first monograph that the Publication Center publishes. As a collaborative effort, because everyone will totally be on board with this.

Even so, stray thought that pulled me by the ears out of almost-sleep at 1:45 a.m., I just have to say one thing: 1:45 a.m. is so harsh a time to be having thoughts that aren't dreams. Even if you did, in fact, get me out of bed and writing it down. Oh yeah, I wrote it down.

But seriously: Kairos, dude. Think about it.

htms

*

Dear the weekend,

As I flailed and outlasted the workweek--one of the more challenging ones so far, but not the most challenging, I'm betting, of this Infinity-of-Labors Semester--it was so good to realize that there you were, the weekend, right there in my pocket.

And did you ever feel good in the palm of my hand, when I woke up without an alarm on Saturday, and ate pancakes after working out, when I wrote letters to Scotland and mailed them, when I sent out a draft to my coworkers. When we went to the strangest movie, when we poked around in funny shops, and ate a delicious dinner at a new restaurant--the weekend, you were like an amulet, making things better. More cheerful, with better conversation and more relish. More laughter.

Tomorrow's Monday, but I won't forget you, the weekend, twinkling on the horizon,

htms

**

Dear people making videos with your cell phones at a concert,

No it is not okay, not even remotely, to walk around the concert venue with your cameras video-ing away, getting closer and closer to the pianist, whilst recording for who knows what reason, for minutes on end. It's not okay! The pianist's being blind makes it worse, because it's as if you're saying, it's okay! she's blind, I'm not disturbing her. 

Like you're little mice and not grown women, tiptoeing around in full view of the entire audience and the rest of the band, making a video as if you're Albert Maysles and this is the Rolling Stones at Altamont. But no: it's a little jazz concert, a little jazz trio, and everyone can see you, and it's distracting and rude.

Really, if I hadn't been on the verge of starvation and therefore in grave need of rushing out of the concert as soon as it was over, I might have grabbed you by the, whatever, flowy cardigan, and said how rude how rude how rude!

But I was too hungry, and also probably not chutzpah'd up enough, but people with your cell phones at a concert, listen up: sit down! listen with your ears! and DO NOT SIDLE UP WITH YOUR CELL PHONE BEHIND THE PIANO PLAYER, be she blind, be she sighted, to make a video.

Because it is just beyond, and you ought to know better,

htms

Paper.

[one]

Princeton recently received an extremely valuable collection of rare books from William Scheide, who had the collection from his grandfather and his father. At the time of his death, the collection included more than 2500 items, including a Gutenberg Bible, an original printing of the Declaration of Independence, and many things more wonderful than these. Paul Needham, librarian of the Scheide collection, says

He has dozens and dozens of extremely rare examples of early European printing showing the spread of printing outside the city of Mainz where it was invented to other parts of Europe. Many of those items are unique survivals. He has a very strong collection of significant music manuscripts because he was himself a music historian. He has a strong collection of Bach autographed material and scribal copies of Bach's compositions annotated by Bach, a wonderful sketchbook that Beethoven kept where he wrote down all his musical ideas when he was in Vienna about the year 1815.

What I wouldn't give to be able to see--just see--that Beethoven sketchbook. Or Bach's annotations on those 'scribal copies.'

Audie Cornish asks Needham, in a brief interview yesterday on NPR, to talk about the relation of digitized material, as much of this collection is already or soon will be, to the actual physical objects--'the physical pages,' and he says this:

[two]

Two days in a row, I've received letters from Scotland.

in the post.

The first was from Evie:

Helloe.

Her news was that she had written book that included very intelligent sharks--they can talk and they can understand us--who were planning to go to America and eat the people and make America their own. Luckily for America, the heroine of the book gathered an army and fended them off.

Miriam's letter was perhaps less literary but a little more chatty. She reported that "last night we went to a wedding reception--it was great. I got to dance with baby Jacob! I was a bit dizzy last night as well because I was spinning Oliver." This sounds to me quite as fancy as any ball at a manor house in Jane Austen.

[three]

This wee is 'You've Got Mail' week at my grandson Deacon's school. I wrote him a letter on a card from a set I bought awhile ago, called 'Typographica.' It had an alphabet and numerals in old style typography, like this:

The little letter I wrote will arrive care of his teacher at his school, where he will read and open it. I remember getting letters from my grandmother when I was a child, and my mother wrote letters to me and my little family when I was a young wife and mother. I have some of them, but I know that others of them got lost in a long-ago move. Perhaps for this reason, it is difficult for me to give away anything handwritten, written by hand to me. There it is, that paper that the writer chose, and the writer's handwriting--the patience, or impatience evidenced there, legible or barely so. Even the most ordinary handwritten thing is a treasure and a mystery.

Teeny tiny letters.

Dear next to the last packet of really good instant oatmeal,

Thanks for being there in the cupboard. Thanks for being amenable to additions such as currants and chopped almonds. Thanks for being the very signifier of the best way to start the day. Thanks for taking just two and a half minutes, and being, thus, super convenient.

I'm sorry if this sounds like a commercial, but this morning, I really really loved you.

I'm saying LOVE,

htms

Dear Fresh Donut & Deli,

When, a few months ago, my friend told me the story of your doughnuts, I listened, but on the inside I was more,  right, sure, but really, aren't doughnuts just doughnuts? and therefore good? Except for the Seven Eleven ones, which are an insult not only to doughnuts but to the entire category of fried dough. That caveat aside: aren't doughnuts just good? All of them? But I was wrong. Because you, Fresh Donut & Deli, are, as advertised, fresh, and more, you are tender and light and perfectly sweet, and you made my whole office smell so good for a whole hour before the doughnuts were to be eaten as refreshments for a thing.

I wanted to, but I didn't eat one before the appointed hour--before the refreshments for the thing. Because I have self-discipline. But you definitely made it a horse race.

Mmmmm doughnuts,

htms

Well, Friday,

You certainly took your time getting here.



Ah, hell, come on in. Let's go watch TV.

I love you no matter what,

htms

Short letters.

Dear Monday,

There was a moment when you were blank with promise. Then a meeting request. And another meeting request, and another. Suddenly, your middle was all full of meetings, and you were thus like any other day.

What was there to do, but succumb to that meeting-ful middle and therefore not do anything else worth mentioning?

Slothfully,

htms

______________

Dear Submissions,

I have just blown you a kiss and sent you off. In this metaphor, you are on a swift-moving boat, wending your manuscript-y way to wherever manuscripts go--hell? an alien land? another planet?--whence editors will hail me from afar in a few months. "Hey!" they'll say. "Hey you! Poet!"

I will cup my hand to my ear so that I can hear them a little better.

"Someone else besides you won the competition! But we value your manuscript highly! Unfortunately we can't publish all the good work we receive!"



I guess it's not really a metaphor, but

Good luck,

htms

_________________

Dear York,

As I understand it, you have a medieval wall. Parts of the wall are Roman, even. And there's a killer minster. And other stuff massively historical, dating back to William the Conqueror and the Vikings.

In the larger region--although I admit, I have little sense of what is "a great way off" or "quite close" or "not likely, not in the same day!"--there is the Yorkshire Dales National Park, where there are dales, apparently, which I am still trying to understand the nature of. There's also the North York Moors National Park, where there are moors, and also historic trains, ruined abbeys, etc.

I like just saying these words: "medieval wall." "minster." "dales." "moors." "ruined abbeys."

York, I want to see you so much it hurts. Even though, as my daughter points out, for people who actually live among them, one ruined abbey or medieval wall is the same as another. I know that you will not disappoint me, because I'm just like that. A medieval wall makes me unreasonably happy. I will take a thousand pictures of you, York and environs.

I hope you are as exciting to my traveling companions. And perhaps that you have an excellent candy shop or bakery or both, to soothe anyone who finds medieval walls and ruined abbeys a little bit of a cliche.

Fervently,

htms