A few things have come to my attention.

1. Two times of late, I've had advice from editors that I should cut a sizable chunk out of a longish poem. And after consideration, I've decided that they're right, the poems are better without the sizable chunk in them.

2. There are about a billion television shows on cable that I know not whereof. What are these shows? What is Chrisley Knows Best? Is it kind of like Charles in Charge? or Who's the Boss? Could you make up a little chant of three word television show titles, all of which are (maybe) subpar? (Except I really did love Who's the Boss. Shh.)

3. In terms of online shopping, shoes.

4. I have a ton of books I have never read, or only barely read. Shelves and shelves of them. They sit amongst the books I have read like strangers, like friends of friends. Will I read them? Who can say?

5. Too much to know, not enough time. Too much to do, not enough time. Not enough time, basically.

6. I have got to make a shopping plan and actually buy groceries that can be turned into something besides pasta and/or a soft taco. MUST.

7. Comfortable shoes make parking far away from one's building on a sunny but cold day seem like an opportunity to get some steps in, and not like a foot-abusing ordeal. In this regard, comfortable shoes are practically life-altering. Maybe literally life-altering.

8. Other people--students, for instance--may have a different perspective than I do on the giant and expensive community project that is higher education. And in some respects, they may be correct.

9. The last of the already cut-up raw vegetables, an apple and (again) a small piece of cheese are not exactly a satisfying lunch. But they are a postponement of ravenous hunger and as such may play a satisfying lunch in today's masque, entitled "A long long very long day without sandwiches."

An essay about my cowboy boots.

Many years ago, possessed by I don't know what, I found and bought a pair of red cowboy boots. I wore them as many ways as I could think to wear them, although in retrospect, I believe they were aspirational and symbolic, in that they represented something about myself that I wanted to express. I loved them and they were beautiful, but there were days when they seemed better than I was, braver and brasher and less afraid, and that's not a good situation, in terms of footwear. Gradually I wore them less and less, and then I gave them away.

Recently, I became possessed of the idea that, again, I needed a pair of cowboy boots. So I began to look for them, with patience but with purpose. I found them: the right price and beautiful. They are one of my favorite colors for shoes, navy blue, but dark enough that they can seem almost black. They are comfortable, even, which is a great quality, especially when coupled with beauty. I'm sure they are also aspirational and symbolic, but their meaning is elusive to me at this point. I wear them--not exactly often, but regularly, and each time I do I am more pleased with them.

I wore them today, for instance, the day my son and his wife and family went back home to their life in Arizona. They'd been staying with us for the last week. It has been so lovely each morning, to have a little boy, then another, appear up the stairs, ready for breakfast and a chat. This morning, for instance, the older boy told me he wanted corn flakes and raisins for his breakfast. "Craisins," he amended, meaning dried cranberries. I happened to have some dried cranberries, leftover from my fruitcake baking. But I also offered him the option of some raisins I had bought, the Jumbo Raisin Medley of Trader Joe's provenance. I showed him a rather large golden raisin.

He shook his head emphatically. "No, I don't want those."

"Do you want to try one just to see?" I asked, but gently.

He took one and ate it with the expression of a scientist performing an exacting experiment. He finished, having eaten it very thoroughly--it was quite a large raisin--and repeated, "No, I don't want those."

So craisins it was. He ate and hummed little melodies, asked questions and made comments about the pictures and drawings we had posted on our kitchen wall. This kind of heaven is what I am talking about. One of the nights this week, his cousin spent the night, and the following morning we made waffles. I poured syrup carefully into all the squares and cut the waffles into pieces so we could have a lovely, fleeting breakfast.

Sure, there were tears and late nights, little meltdowns, but mostly, it was just a joy to have them. So this morning when I dressed to accompany them on the first part of their journey, down to Orem to visit my parents, whence my son and family would depart to the south and we would return to the north, I wanted to be comfortable but also fitting for the occasion, so I put on my boots. It's worth noting these departures, I feel.

When we got home, I was so tired. I've been ill, am still recovering. Today's outing was just about what I could handle, maybe a little more than I could handle. I started some laundry, and lay down on the sheetless bed to rest. I didn't take my boots off, I'm not sure why. Maybe I didn't think I'd be sleeping so long. Maybe I was tired enough to do no more than sink into bed.

When I woke up three hours later, I thought, there's no good reason to take a nap in cowboy boots. But maybe when you're ill, a little bit exhausted and a little bit melancholy, there's not a compelling reason to take them off, either. I lay there a little longer, checked my phone. They'd arrived in St. George, the first leg of their trip. I took my boots off and the historian and I prepared for a quiet night in.

Dear after the retreat,

I am feeling a little blue. It's to be expected, after a retreat, but somehow I never do expect it--after this kind of intense, focused experience, a little exhilarating, I come back to my life and I have questions like these to answer:

• what kind of writer am I, anyway?
• have I squandered all or just most of my opportunities?
• will I ever make anything worthwhile?

etcetera, questions I think we can agree are not particularly productive when asked in an after-the-retreat blue period.

So I did the sensible thing: I carried out a crafts-imperative. And no, I am not speaking of my writing craft, I am speaking of going to Michael's to buy gesso, acrylic paints, and a fixative so that I could turn a pair of uninspiring loafers into gold loafers. As in: I painted my shoes.

I bought the shoes below online. They are perfect in every way except the color which I somehow thought would be creamier, more delicious, more go-with-everything. Instead they were simultaneously mobster-in-Miami and grungy:

Practically, this means that I almost never wore these shoes. Yet I hesitated to give them away. They were--and this is meaningful in my shoe wardrobe--comfortable. Would the color grow on me? Would I fall in love with them over time? Could I somehow change their color? Could I paint them?

I looked it up on the internet, after having inquired of my daughter (who had spray painted some pumpkins in a brilliant and very shiny fashion at Halloween) as to whether she advised spray paint for shoes. She said I should look it up on the internet, which I did (see above). I found these instructions, which is what sent me up to Michael's.

Before I started, though, the historian called me out to see this in the front garden:

"I think it might be safer in the other flower bed," he said.

"I don't know if I like being married to a snake handler," I said, as he picked the snake up and put it in the ivy, where it flipped its tail in an insouciant manner as it disappeared.

Back to the shoes:

These (above) are gessoed. Gesso prepares the surface so it will take the paint.

I was going for a rose gold thing, so I bought bronze paint (iridescent) and some pink paint. No dice. This led to a dull bronze color. Lovely, but not quite gleam-y enough. So I added another coat of bronze:

I let it dry. Then I sprayed it with a fixative:

I know. I had mobster-in-Miami, now I have whatever this is. Which I am, honestly, in love with. Gold shoes! The best! 

After the retreat, I think wearing gold shoes will put me in a better position for considering my artistic future.

Sincerely,

htms

Wish list.

Would've been great to see this set.
If I were a traveling salesman in 1910, I would wear these.
My inner male dresses like this, except when he dresses like this.
It would be kind of fun to drift in a desultory way through this.
And I would sure like to see this.
Looking forward to reading this.
Thinking about staying in a cottage here with college daughter.
If I had organizational and minimalist powers, I could make my kitchen feel like this, even though there are charms to being just the way I am (wishful thinking).
I know it's silly to dream like this, but I kind of wish every day could feel like this:




(thanks for this idea, SAKS)