Saturday night is for thinking about politics.

This afternoon, when I was fretting, the historian pointed me to this editorial in In These Times, which I think does a good job of explaining how politics works. An excerpt:

On Jan. 15, during a primary debate in South Carolina, CNN’s Wolf Blitzer asked the candidates, “If Dr. Martin Luther King were alive today, why should he endorse you?” Obama, the one-time community organizer, replied: “Well, I don’t think Dr. King would endorse any of us. I think what he would call on the American people to do is to hold us accountable. … I believe change does not happen from the top down; it happens from the bottom up.”

The senator from Illinois has an understanding of how politics works that escapes his slavish supporters and jaded critics. In that, he is like Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who once told an adviser after listening to a well-reasoned proposal: “Well, you’ve convinced me. Now go out and find me a constituency to make me do it.”

Our job is not to convince Obama to govern progressively, but to build the constituency that will make him do so.

Also, Saturday nights are for going to the movies. We took the TRAX downtown, got off at the station between 8th and 9th South and walked up a couple of blocks . . .





. . . to Brewvies, where we saw Ghost Town, a funny and also sweet film that we both enjoyed.

After that, we walked back to the station and took the train home.

Friday afternoon.

I was downtown today about noon. Could it be any more beautiful? I ask you:




In an important update, due to my get-up-and-go schedule today, I barely had time to look balefully at my computer because it is so slow, let alone check the polls like it was my job. Guess what? Everything is fine. I'd like to say that this means I've learned my lesson, and therefore tomorrow I will not check the polls obsessively, but I can't say that, because tomorrow is another, hopefully beautiful, day, and who knows what might happen if I'm not online morning noon and night? The end of the civilized world as we know it? that's why you can count on me. I'm on it, never fear. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on those polls. You need me on those polls.

Special Announcement: Who's gonna blog like it's 1999? November is NaBloPoMo. That's right, National Blog Posting Month. You know I'll be there. Who's with me?

Oooooooooh, tag.

Dr. Write tagged me! The idea is to answer these questions with just one word, so here I go. If there's a parenthetical after my answer, it doesn't count, since parentheses cast whatever they contain into the abyss (I'm pretty sure that's what Derrida meant by mise en abyme, and if it isn't I don't want to hear about it). Here I go:

Where is your cell phone? bedside
Where is your significant other? doomsville (work)
Your hair color? graying
Your mother? supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Your father? Rockin' (in the Free World)
Your favorite thing? movies
Your dream last night? Obamafied
Your dream/goal? writing
The room you’re in? bedroom
Your hobby? shopping
Your fear? irrelevance
Where do you want to be in 6 years? here (SLC)
Where were you last night? book club
What you’re not? tidy
One of your wish-list items? publication
Where you grew up? Japan/California/Tucson
The last thing you did? obsessed (over the elections, obviously!)
What are you wearing? clothing
Your TV? cabled (dished, big diff)
Your pet? Boddhisatva (aka Bruiser, the enlightened one)
Your computer? overused
Your mood? optimistic (my duty in a democracy)
Missing someone? kids
Your car? Camry (of Power)
Something you’re not wearing? socks
Favorite store? Target
Your summer? blissful
Love someone? Multitudes
Your favorite color? yellow
When is the last time you laughed? six p.m. ("Two and a Half Men," sorry!)
Last time you cried? afternoon (working on a poem)

I tag: Hands Across the Water, Deacon's Mommy, The Nitty Gritty, The Inner Workings of . . ., Gillian, Middlebrow, and Counterintuitive. Do it! I'm begging you!

Important information for your head.

Tiny hotel rooms. (via digg)

Good news if you like Halloween (or, conversely, another reason I hate Halloween). (via The Cut)

And of course,

Nuts for the winter.

The historian asked me, "You don't think Bruiser is getting. I mean, you don't think he has even a little extra, because . . . "

We both have our eyes on this question because last spring my kids' dad greeted Bruiser with a "Getting a little fat, Bruiser?" Which stung us, I confess, and we were all, No he isn't! And after that, we were all, Is he?

"You're supposed to be able to feel their ribs," I said, feeling his ribs.

"Can you feel them?"

Of course I could, but there was quite a bit of dog hair between my fingers and his ribs, otherwise known as "fur." Which complicates the question. Of course we could feel his ribs! Of course we could.

Maybe someone should devise a "feel the ribs" test for all of us, since, with the weather getting cold, we're all observing the evolutionary imperative to store up fat. Yeah, evolutionary imperative! But I want to tell you that soup may be the answer. Answer to what? Why, what to eat when the weather gets cold, that's what.

"I hope you don't mind having soup night after night," I said to the historian, since tonight was night three of my new initiative, "Soup Night After Night." Let me tell you about it:

Night 1: Vegetarian Chili and Quesadillas. I used dried black beans that I have had for, I think, a hundred years, literally, as well as assorted this and that, farmer's market onions and garlic and peppers, and roasted tomatoes. It made a delicious follow-up lunch burrito and another delicious follow-up bowl the day after that.

Night 2: Onion Soup with a Lovely Crouton, accompanied by a green salad. The secret to onion soup is to cook the onions forever, slowly, in butter until they caramelize. You could use oil, but why, when there's butter? I used a yellow, a white, and a red onion, as well as some garlic. Also, I find that a tiny little tip of something extra in the soup deepens and complexifies the flavor, like wine or even a tiny bit of balsamic vinegar. I am not ashamed to say that I use vegetarian vegetable bouillon cubes. This soup was awesome.

Night 3: Potage Bonne Femme* with Caprese Salad and Peach-Blueberry Crisp for dessert. I added two potatoes and a bunch of carrots to the leftover onion soup, some more water and an additional bouillon cube. Once the vegetables were falling apart, I blended the whole thing. I thought about adding some milk, but it was unnecessary. This soup is unbelievably delicious, considering its humble ingredients. I was particularly proud of the way I troped the previous night's dinner into tonight's. High five to myself! It's still blowing my mind that I have wonderful tomatoes and basil. But I do. And the crisp I made from some of the half a lug (that sounds about right) of peaches we cut up and froze a month ago, as well as blueberries I froze when they were kind of cheap. (*original recipe, adapted here, given to me when I was a young wife by my oldest friend--and still going strong!)

Someone still has to do the dishes, however. Where's the evolutionary imperative for that, I ask you?

Year's Best in Movies, 2008 edition.

In the spirit of my initial misunderstanding of the whole Best American Poetry (Year), concept--which is, the book is published in a certain year, but the poetry was published the previous year, whereas I was always so pissed because they were picking the best poetry when the year wasn't even over yet! What the hell!--I offer you this year's "Best of" film list, even though there are plenty more good films--I'm sure there are!--yet to come before 2008 breathes its last.

This exercise always leads to contemplation: will Kevin Spacey ever make another good movie? Why did the CoenBros. (tm) let me down? Will the mania for superheroes ever stop? How come so many comedies look so crappy? Conversely, how come movies that are truly beautiful are often simultaneously a little empty-headed?

I will leave you to contemplate these big questions, while I propose the following:

Movie that makes one question whether singing in the movies is a good idea, but which nonethless holds one rapt: Romance & Cigarettes. Hilarious, inappropriate, overblown. There were some great things in this, but the best by far was Kate Winslet, so amazing, gorgeous, outrageous, sexy and thrillingly human. She is a great, great actress, whatever you might think of this experiment. The rapprochement between James Gandolfini and Susan Sarandon in the last third of the film is also very moving. Not perfect by any means, but I was not sorry to have seen it.

Best romantic comedy (in a very small field, admittedly): Definitely, Maybe. Ryan Reynolds is tall and--shockingly--subtle in the role, but the stars are the women, who are all good, and Rachel Weisz and Isla Fisher are very good. But poor Abigail Breslin! Will the child be allowed to take a vacation? Ever?

Award for magnificent acting: The Savages. Philip Seymour Hoffman, Laura Linney, Philip Bosco. All transplendent.

Best movie that proposes the joys of homemade art: Two way tie between Be Kind, Rewind and Honeydripper.

Best music movie: The Band's Visit. See also Honeydripper.

Best dance movie--and this one is one of the best of all time: Step Up 2: The Streets. The standard is, of course that proposed by lis: a movie that is "awesome and plotless . . . who needs plot when you can move like that?"

Movies made watchable by Robert Downey Jr.: Charlie Bartlett and Iron Man. Neither of these movies was splendid, but excellent character acting (in CB) and a star turn (in IM) made me feel like I hadn't wasted my time. And my life. Bonus: Iron Man's inclusion of Jeff Bridges.

Excellent idiosyncratic little film: Married Life. I saw none of the Bonds that starred him, but I am loving Pierce Brosnan these days, and he is, again, awesome in this.

Best war movie: Stop Loss. I love how Kimberly Peirce makes you feel the solidity and tenderness of the young men's fleshly existence, because it makes their deaths--both physical and spiritual--the more weighty and unbearable.

Funniest movie featuring a puppet show: Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Funny, sweet, raunchy, good. When Jason Segel does songs from his puppet musical of Dracula at a roadhouse bar in Hawaii (I know, it sounds ridiculous), it's kind of perfection.

Best film featuring a literary critic analyzing Tennyson: Smart People.There was a scene in which the professor and his students were talking about a Tennyson poem ("The Lotos-Eaters") that gave me heart--drama could be made out of this! My studies were not in vain, possibly.

Best graphic/animated film: Two way tie between Persepolis and WALL-E.

Excellent small film: The Visitor. Features a beautiful performance by Richard Jenkins, of Six Feet Under fame. The real, and haunting, surprise, was the actress Hiam Abbass (who was also in Paradise Now), a beautiful and quiet actress.

Good martial arts for non-martial arts fanatics: The Forbidden Kingdom. I have a lot of catching up to do, Jackie Chan and Jet Li-wise. But I really, really enjoyed this movie.

Beautiful, beautiful movie that is maybe a little empty-headed: My Blueberry Nights. But there were some really good parts in this movie, although strangely, I can only barely remember what they were . . .

Another lovely movie that proposes the joys of homemade art: Son of Rambow.

Most ravishing movie: The Fall.

Dang good all around movie: The Dark Knight.

Movie improved by the presence of Jason Bateman: Hancock. I pretty much enjoyed this whole movie, but thank whomever for Arrested Development, because that show begat all the Jason Bateman roles improving movies everywhere.

Best movie featuring "Paper Planes" in the trailer: Pineapple Express. Otherwise, too violent for a comedy.

Best movie featuring ravishing Spaniards: Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Runner-up: Elegy.

Best movie featuring Kristen Scott Thomas in a French-speaking role: Tell No One.

Best Documentary: Two-way tie between Encounters at the End of the World and Man on Wire.

Darn good tense thriller: Frozen River

Even better tense thriller: Transsiberian. Bonus: Featuring excellent performance by Ben Kingsley (runner-up in the "Featuring excellent performance by Ben Kingsley" category: Elegy.)

Best movie featuring the infinitely sweet Michael Cera: Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist. I read one critic who said that his line readings are a national treasure. This is true.

Best odd and unsettling project for a film to undertake: W.

And the best film I have seen this year: The Edge of Heaven. It has a structure kind of like Babel's, but more modest, and with a consistently more humane scope. If you didn't see this movie, queue it up. It is completely worth your time.

Like/don't like.

Cosmos/petunias.
Asters/chrysanthemums*.
Thanksgiving/Halloween*.
Tootsie Rolls/candy corn.
Paul Krugman/Irving Kristol.
Jonathan Demme/Adrian Lyne.
No allergies/allergies.

Also, I am looking forward to this and this.

*except for, lately, I've been noticing how much I love some of the chrysanthemums I'm seeing, which is making me rethink the chrysanthemums I ripped out of our back yard a few years ago. Not really. Those were bad.
*little kids dressed in costumes are cute. Just don't ask me to dress up. Just don't.
*candy corn is a waste of perfectly good sugar, in my humble opinion.

Creativity questionnaire.

In 1930, Yeats received a "Questionnaire on Creative Effort," from a researcher interested in creativity, Elliot D. Hutchinson, who also sent the same questionnaire to about 250 other thinkers and writers. (Hutchinson later published a book, How to Think Creatively, and also became a professor of psychology at the University of Rochester in New York.)

The questionnaire goes a little something like this:

Do you at first experience a period of general productive inclination, a ill-defined, uneasy desire to produce something?

Always . . . . . Usually . . . . . Seldom . . . . . Never . . . . .

Is this productive inclination a permanent state of mind? . . . . . or only a mood . . . . . ?

What are your intellectual activities during this period? Are they

(a) active and definite search for material related to the topic in hand?

Always . . . . . Usually . . . . . Seldom . . . . . Never . . . . .

(b) Vague daydreaming along the lines determined by the nature of the work?

Always . . . . . Usually . . . . . Seldom . . . . . Never . . . . .

(c) Passive attitude of waiting for 'inspiration'?

Always . . . . . Usually . . . . . Seldom . . . . . Never . . . . .

(d) Absorption in other interests?

Always . . . . . Usually . . . . . Seldom . . . . . Never . . . . .

[For more of this questionnaire, look here, although you'll have to look around for "Creativity Questionnaire."] But I really just want to point out that Yeats, like me, when in the period of 'general productive inclination'--and let me just digress to point out that I am always inclined, generally, to be productive: absolutely always!--he

• usually deliberately looks for material (although it "depends on the nature of the work')
• always vaguely daydreams
• never sits around waiting passively for inspiration, and
  
• usually gets absorbed in (wait for it) detective stories.

Hey, W.B. (and you know he can hear me--he's perning in a gyre somewhere, but he can hear me, all right.): Ditto!

Listen up, pundits.

I know better, but I can't help myself.

Pundits [noun, from the old Sanskrit word 'pandita' meaning 'a learned man'] must pund, or whatever the verb form of pundit is. It's their job, though perhaps a low, ignoble one. Indeed, I myself have some of the traits that might qualify me to be one, since I'm full of opinions and I sure offer them up like it's my job. However, I am getting irked with the apparently widely held view that Obama is passionless, so unflappable that he verges on dull. To wit, David Brooks' piece, "Thinking About Obama," in today's New York Times:

We’ve been watching Barack Obama for two years now, and in all that time there hasn’t been a moment in which he has publicly lost his self-control. This has been a period of tumult, combat, exhaustion and crisis. And yet there hasn’t been a moment when he has displayed rage, resentment, fear, anxiety, bitterness, tears, ecstasy, self-pity or impulsiveness.

Overstatement, a little? You can read the rest of the piece here, and though I agree that, in contrast with his opponent, Obama is relatively calm, intellectual, deliberative, and unflappable, I'm just not quite sure how we get from that comparative assessment to the second of the following two possible forecasts for an Obama presidency:

And it is easy to sketch out a scenario in which he could be a great president. He would be untroubled by self-destructive demons or indiscipline. With that cool manner, he would see reality unfiltered. He could gather — already has gathered — some of the smartest minds in public policy, and, untroubled by intellectual insecurity, he could give them free rein. Though he is young, it is easy to imagine him at the cabinet table, leading a subtle discussion of some long-term problem.

Of course, it’s also easy to imagine a scenario in which he is not an island of rationality in a sea of tumult, but simply an island. New presidents are often amazed by how much they are disobeyed, by how often passive-aggressiveness frustrates their plans.

It could be that Obama will be an observer, not a leader. Rather than throwing himself passionately into his causes, he will stand back. Congressional leaders, put off by his supposed intellectual superiority, will just go their own way. Lost in his own nuance, he will be passive and ineffectual. Lack of passion will produce lack of courage. The Obama greatness will give way to the Obama anti-climax.

David Brooks, I know you're disappointed in how the election is shaping up, but your melancholy kind-of equanimity is bugging me. Snap out of it.

In conclusion, I am sick of the opinions I am gulping down by the heaping paragraphs. I would like to stop. I'm not sure how that's going to happen. In the meanwhile, anyone who wants to can buy me this:
Because if I'm going to spend this much time arguing, even if only in my head and occasionally on my blog, and also a little bit with the ever-patient historian, who is willing to stand in the place of my straw man, I should have the jewelry to call me what I am.

[pundit necklace via the "Election Schwag" feature on Mighty Goods]

Metaphor-generating machine.

In Summerland, which is a pretty charming young adult novel by Michael Chabon, a character says this:

A baseball game is nothing but a great slow contraption for getting you to pay attention to the cadence of a summer day.

That seems pretty good, as a metaphor, to me--even though I'm not mad for baseball.

So, if a baseball game is "nothing but a great slow &c.," then what is a soccer game? a basketball game? a football game? a tennis match?

Sportos, I'm asking you. I do have a poem about soccer, but it's more of a mom poem than a player poem. So I need your help. My imaginative world depends on it.

Updates: I wrote a poem today. Here was my process:

1. got up late.
2. ate breakfast while assiduously checking out the internets.
3. lay back down for some cozy reading of novel.
4. joined by dog for cozy reading.
5. fell asleep for a few minutes.
6. woke up to sun in the window and absolute stillness, which crystallized into a frieze of imagery and phrases.

Yeah, I'm doing fine.

My neighbor plays tuneless, bass-heavy techno, every single night now for about ten days. Nice guy, but why?

Off to finish my baseball reverie. The world hangs in the balance. No, seriously. Chabon is surprisingly cosmological in this novel.

No, but I would like to talk about my grandchildren.

That's the answer to the question, "Is your writing going well?" by the way.

But I digress! I am doing a swell job of

• reading.
  
• dog-walking.
• cooking with the vegetables God gave us.
• really enjoying the weather.
• giving a bottle to a tiny baby.
• getting smiles and kisses from the one-year-old grandson.
• did I mention reading?
• tracking every stupid bit of commentary about the election.
• obsessing about comments on Scotland daughter's blog about the election.
• thinking about the writing.

I had a dream that had fruit flies in it a couple of days ago. While, for the most part, fruit flies are almost always a negative, as in, Omg why are there so freaking many fruit flies? hanging around the peaches? Sweet Lord please save me from the fruit flies! In the dream, though--and I can't remember much of it--they were, I think, kind of beautiful. Kind of like these insects, catching the light over the Snake:



Maybe the flies in my dream were not so many or quite so busy, and definitely not as creepy (although I find this video also beautiful, but that's just me). But mind in motion, catching the light--not such bad metaphors for writing, actually.

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)

Got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.

In other words, I can't stop

• trying to figure out what the economic situation actually is,
• trying to figure out exactly how worried I should be about
  
• myself and the historian,
• my children,
• my mom and dad,
• my siblings,
• my bff, and
  
• how this will affect the election, as well as
  
• how on earth whoever wins the election will deal with all of it.

I made a new iGoogle page with a bunch of news and aggregators links. However: this way lies madness and obsessive page refreshing, so I also sorted through a bunch of possessions that it was time to get rid of (I think I could do this monthly, frankly), then made some excellent whole wheat bread and a good dinner, which we shared with singing son and his wife. What else is there to do?

This may shed a little light on the situation:

Aw, dammit.

Despite sweet talk, tough talk, careful removal and replacement of batteries, using a different kind of battery, looking online at the manual, consultation with an expert (my brother-in-law) and blah blah blah etcetera, my camera steadfastly refused to heal itself. What the hell. This apparently means that now, I have to wrap it up and send it off to some service center where they may charge me as much as my camera is worth to fix it . . . and what's more, in the chaos of my stuff, I can't find any of my documentation for it. Is it under warranty, you ask? Well, who knows?

What do they call this? poetic justice? the chickens come home to roost? bad karma? born under a bad sign?

Feh, I say. I hate when stuff doesn't work.

Time to read my young adult novel by a celebrated author, featuring baseball, ferishers, bridges between worlds, and two kids who are, I'm guessing, gonna help each other out, be heroes and save the world. But who's gonna save my camera?

Cold storage.

This year at the October farmer's market, it is genius! Somehow things have held until now, so there are still peaches, plums, tomatoes, basil, melons, beans, along with winter squashes, potatoes, greens, pumpkins. Today, we got apples from a guy who literally picked them last night--Macintoshes, and so unbelievably good. He also had late crop peaches, O Henrys, that he let ripen on the tree, picked within hours of our buying them. Unbelievable! Given yesterday's and today's weather, it seems a little unseemly to be eating fresh tomatoes and green beans, let alone peaches, but there you are: eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow there may only be gruel, but today there are peaches and tomatoes.

Here are some things we saw at the market today:





















Squashes & pumpkins




















At Sun River




















At Chad's


















At David's


















At Tremonton Girl's


















Tremonton Girl and husband

Chilling with Will.

This week, I've had the chance to give the 11:30 a.m. feeding every day to this charming young man:

Let us now praise Jeff Bridges.

Today I saw How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, which is, on the one hand, an amusing way to pass a couple of hours, funny and kind of sweet and occasionally sharp and witty, and then on the other hand not a really, truly great film . . . but Jeff Bridges plays the editor of Sharps, a Vanity Fair lookalike, and he was excellent. As always: I don't think I've ever been disappointed by a Jeff Bridges performance, even if the movie wasn't so good.

For instance, I found Iron Man pretty entertaining, at least for the first two thirds, maybe, and Robert Downey Jr. is always perfectly excellent--but Bridges, in the role of Obadiah Stane, was also perfectly excellent--chomping on a cigar, imposing, menacing and also solid. Nothing too fancy, except for a crazy shaved head and incongruous beard. (Also, do I remember him riding up on a Segway?) A marvelous, film-enhancing performance.

How about Seabiscuit? I saw this movie on a plane--I was thinking I was too good for that film, but I enjoyed it, and Bridges was not the least of its pleasures (Chris Cooper, William H. Macy). Or, one of my favorites, when he played the President of the U.S. in The Contender, a kind of mix of L.B.J. and Bill Clinton. I almost didn't care about the outcome of the narrative because of how much fun it was whenever President Bridges came on the scene.

And of course, The Big Lebowski.

In reviewing his oeuvre on imdb, I'm thinking I still need to see American Heart, The Door in the Floor, and Tucker: The Man and His Dreams.

In other news, I would like to comment on the mounting incidences of people using the word "gift" as a verb. As in "He gifted her with a diamond bracelet," or even "He gifted her a diamond bracelet." Why not just "give"? Why not "He gave her a diamond bracelet"? I protest. It's bleah and it bugs.

Researching is a recursive activity.

I find myself increasingly fascinated by the history of Dublin and Ireland, now that we've already gone and now that we're back. Before we left, of course, I was too busy getting my manuscript ready to learn about the place we were going. But onward, as there is plenty of time for self-recrimination later: for instance, we found out that Dublin was founded at the confluence of the Liffey and the River Poddle. The Poddle made settlement at the Dublin location possible--the Liffey is a freshwater river at its source, but in Dublin, it's tidal and therefore salty. The Poddle was a freshwater river; the confluence created a pool which gave Dublin its name (Dubh Linn = black pool).

But these days, the Poddle has gone, for the most part, underground. How does a river go underground? I asked myself, whilst in Dublin. Well, it turns out that this can happen a number of ways, including naturally, but it's also true that rivers can be diverted and culverted and even built over, which is what happened to the Poddle. (Also, the historian told me that he read an article by a guy who is interested in all the waterways in the Salt Lake Valley that have disappeared, gone underground, etc., and London has many streams and rivers, tributaries of the Thames, that have had a similar fate.)

Anyhow, there's a guy who's not only curious but kind of obsessed about this question regarding the Poddle. I am working on getting ready to think about writing a poem about a river going underground, maybe, but in the meanwhile, I'm looking at stuff like this:



(It's a little long, but that's the way it is with obsessions.)

This just in.

It's mouse and bird hunting season for our aged cat. She killed and ate one bird yesterday while I was taking Bruiser for a walk. It's so very nice to come home to find an entirely deconstructed creature, all scattered feathers but minus its interior. Y'know, it's all surface--a postmodern kill.

Tonight, I heard her make a low yowling sound, which always indicates murderous intent. Mouse-icidal impulses. Indeed, she had a mouse in her mouth, which she dropped when the historian picked her up. This meant, with only minimal scampering, the mouse found a hiding place, which called for us to use the two-man mouse-trapping method. This involves a blanket and two people, one to shoo and the other to catch. Bonus: I moved a medium-sized pile of crap (bags, a purse or two, etc.) and found the mouse, which the historian (who has excellent hands) caught and released. Thanks, kitty!

Maybe kind of sort of.

I wrote a poem yesterday, for my writing group, and started another poem today. What this may mean, and I'm saying this with some humility, as a person who can jinx her own mojo by overthinking it, not to mention over-talking it--and let me now refresh your memory as to the initial clause of this sentence: what this may mean is that I may be on my way to a little routine. A groove, if you will.

I'd like to further report that I also had a nice nap today and finished a very good book, which my daughter the make-up artist passed on to me, The Glass Castle. Also, while my work has been rejected by three of the journals I sent it to, my Johnny Cash poem got taken by Tar River Poetry. So I'm feeling cautiously victorious. For now.

Ergo, I shall now bake a cake.

Excuse me, but have you met us?

Return to Sender Department:

One (1) machine-signed photo of John McCain and Sarah Palin, delivered to our house in an oversized envelope. Inscription reads: "Dear Historian, Thank you for your support and commitment to our Party and candidates."

In the rain.

Happy surprise: the farmer's market today, early in October, was full of wonderful food, with plenty of stuff I would have thought would be gone by now, including loads of tomatoes, still, peaches, some plums, melons . . . we came home laden when I thought we'd be stocking up for the winter with sober potatoes and pumpkins. Not that there would be anything wrong with that--but peaches! in October!

The market was thinner today, what with the rain, which was all right by us--fewer people to elbow out of the way (kidding!). We picked up our share from the farmers, then made our regular beat. We got tomatoes, squash, filet beans, an adorable French dessert melon (Charentais), and lettuce from the Tremonton farmers, bread from the Crumb Bros., a gorgeous red Buttercup squash from crazy David at the T where the main drag hits Coffee/Great Harvest/Ethiopian Ladies Street. Peaches from these new (to us) Santaquin people. Asian pears, which is a highlight of the season for us, from these people who appear mysteriously late in the fall for only two or three weeks, with the best Asian pears you ever tasted priced ridiculously low. I feel so fortunate not to have missed them! And then cherries--a bucket of frozen pitted ones and a good-sized bag of dried ones, from the guy who believes sour cherries can cure what ails you.

I think today might be the first day I really felt like myself again after the trip. Here are the reasons it is good to be home: baby Will, Deacon, my son and daughter and their spouses, Carter, Alex, David, Jenna, Rachel, and Eden, the historian's kids, Bruiser, the chance to sink into a creative rhythm, unlimited internet access, my friends and family, and definitely, definitely the farmer's market. Two more weeks!

Television: a good thing.

While we were away, we missed some very important things, like television shows. Today I watched the season premiere of The Office, which included this gem:



This genius bit could prove to be as classic as this one, from Scrubs:



Oh Television! Let us now praise thee. If I can only watch the episode of Mad Men we missed, all will be well and all manner of thing will be well.

How I made it through the Vice-Presidential debate.

I turned the sound way, way down.
I texted and twittered about when I felt something was unbearable.
I read the Arts section of the Sunday New York Times, kind of.
I closed my eyes.
I checked my blog and e-mail obsessively.
I played a little Free Cell.
I checked Slate's and New York Times's debate blogs.
I considered the household tasks I am going to undertake tomorrow.
I relished the fact that, for the first time today, my eyes weren't watering in some tedious and enraging expression of allergies.
I contemplated muting.
But I didn't mute.
I acknowledged to myself that I have absolutely no objectivity about Palin, because I so can't stand her that I couldn't really tell how well she was or wasn't doing.
I told Bruiser what a good, good boy he was.
I drank lots of water.
I switched from PBS to the major networks to see if their post-debate commentators were better.
Nope.

And now? Ugly Betty. This will alleviate the post-traumatic stress disorder, I feel sure.

The filth and the fury.

Even though Dublin is kind of a dirty city (I hope you aren't reading this, Dublin, but if you are, no offense!), I came home and now I feel that my house is even dirtier. My god. My mom asked if this was because of the teenage boys who stayed at our house with Bruiser and I was forced to admit that no, it was pretty much me, who spent the hours before leaving the country sending poetry out to the void.

In these dark times, one is forced to get it together and at least think about vacuuming up a dust bunny or five hundred, do the dishes, and start a load of laundry or ten. In these dark times, one must fend off the rising panic one feels when one is confronted with one's own . . . oh, hell, I just feel overwhelmed by it all and I have to make a dent in it or else feel like fleeing my own house. And that will not do, not in these dark times.

However, in such dark times, I have taken inspiration from W.B. Yeats, and not just because he wrote a poem that began "Things fall apart." That line is one of my many mottos (others: how hard can that be?, what the hell?, and I've had just about enough of your shenanigans.) (also, I am considering, Bitch, you trippin'! Does anyone have any thoughts on this as a motto? Let me know.). However, I am mainly inspired these days by W.B. Yeats because he was tirelessly making stuff and taking inspiration from the most amazingly dubious stuff, including crazy spiritualism of all sorts. In other words, his mind was full of nonsense and he still made beautiful, sublime art just about until the end of his life. In the collection of his papers exhibited at the National Gallery of Ireland, they had all sorts of his notebooks (comforting to me, a notebook keeper of the most random kind), including notebooks that showed some of the automatic writing done by his longsuffering and beautiful wife. It was a wonderful exhibit that you can get a sense of by looking here.

I am also currently taking inspiration from Francis Bacon's studio, which was originally located at 7 Reece Mews in South Kensington in London, but which, after his death, was moved, part and parcel, and then reassembled just as he worked in it, at a gallery in Dublin on Parnell Square, the Hugh Lane Gallery. The most polite word--in fact, the word Bacon himself used--for this gallery is chaos. When I saw this space, I saw my very own soul, and it was (for once) one of the most comforting things I ever saw: so messy! so much stuff! Bacon was not a minimalist. Not! a minimalist, and an extraordinarily productive and powerful artist. Voilá:














And finally, some more pictures from our Ireland trip, for those of you still interested:

Paintballing in Ireland.

Theorris has asked, "How was paintballing in Ireland?" What a very good question! Thank you for asking.

Before I respond, however, I have an announcement to make: young William Steven Bickmore, the brand-new baby of Singing Son and his lovely wife. Born this afternoon, 5 lb. 5 oz. At the moment, I have no photos but you can watch for photo updates here, and I hope to have some of my own very soon. Everyone is doing very well, and the baby is beautiful.

As for paintballing, see for yourself:




My fancier camera ended up expressing a disappointing "zoom error" in a rather rude and repetitive fashion, as in, I could not use this malfunctioning annoyance of a camera. Luckily I also brought my trusty little one, the one with hardly any megapixels? It took darn good pictures anyhow. I will be posting some more pics as soon as I get them processed and sorted.

We had a wonderful, wonderful time. The highlight was spending a whole week with my daughter and her family, including the lovely Miriam and Evie. We tramped all over Dublin and had splendid meals, played with paper dolls and read stories. In fact, I can't say too much about this because, well, you know. Too far, too long, growing up so fast, &c. Your average heartbreak. But it was beyond awesome to be with them. Beyond, I tell you.

Tomorrow I will tell you about (a) Yeats' papers, and (b) Francis Bacon's studio, which was lovingly transported to the Dublin City Gallery where it was reassembled in its squalid glory, a total mess, which as you might imagine, was entirely inspiring to me.

Back in the U.S., back in the U.S., back in the U.S.A.

Why is it 84 degrees? is my first question for you all.

It is too exhausted, here in the U.S.A., for me to begin my full reporting of our adventures in Ireland, but know this: I am super-tired, Bruiser is happy to see us, and there will be pictures. Oh yes! There will be pictures.

I refuse to despair.

I used to say that, in a democracy, it was my duty to remain optimistic.

This maxim has been sorely tested of late. For one thing, I have to ask myself what a democracy is, if a court can overrule the will of the people. My Scotland daughter asked if perhaps we ought not to have independent observers of our next election. Duly noted.

However, I will not despair. I will not give up hope for this election, or in the hopeful possibilities represented by it. I will not believe that, because some white Democrats are reported to have some negative feelings about blacks, they will necessarily all base their electoral decision on those negative feelings. I will not believe it until they prove me wrong, and even then, I will say to them, History is not on your side.

Update: Check this out.

We are here!

A few notes:

• the historian and I had a big Irish breakfast
• we are staying just one street off the Liffey
• we are within about ten minutes from the Temple Bar
• we are going to eat at the Mermaid Cafe tonight, if I have my way
• we went to the zoo today
• we are going to rent a vehicle and go west sometime this week.

That is all. Everything is awesome. So far no paintballing or go-karting.

Other Irish activities to consider.

This morning I received the following from the hotel where we're staying:

Good Morning,

We at stayDublin are looking forward to welcoming you and your guests on Saturday 20th September. If you would like assistance in organising any of the following please do not hesitate to contact me:

1. Airport Transfers
2. Car Hire
3. Dinner Reservations
4. Food or Beverage Orders
5. A gift for any of your party
6. Hair or Beauty appointments
7. Paintballing, Go Karting or other activities

I look forward to hearing from you ,

Kind Regards

This thoughtful note was signed by the "Ancillary Revenue Executive," a job I am also going to consider acquiring as my alternate and ancillary career, for after I get back from Ireland.

(also, when I get home from Ireland, I am going to stop shopping, become a minimalist, start all my projects, get into shape, and make sure Obama wins by a landslide. Watch out!)

Ireland: so close, so very very very very very very far away.

We are leaving in about 32 hours. Here is what I have accomplished so far in the way of getting ready:

• I have purchased batteries for my camera.
• I have purchased a magazine for the flight.
• I have purchased a pad of watercolor paper and a pan of paints so I can paint with my granddaughters.
  
• I have made lists. A lot of lists.
• I have picked out several activities I want to do in Dublin.
  
• I have revised my manuscript, readied it to send out a zillion places, and have sent some packets of poems to magazines via the internets, and have readied other packets to send.
  
• I have a fresh haircut.
• I have a wardrobe concept.
• I have done most of the laundry. I think.
  

Now: I still have to:

• SEND the manuscript and packets.
• before that, address the freaking envelopes for the packets and manuscripts.
• uh, print the manuscript, copy it a zillion times, and print the packets.
• pack.
• not forget things like all the cords I need to take so all my devices can be charged.
• clean up, sort of, at least a little.
• cancel the milk delivery.
• call the insurance company (ha! endlessly deferrable!).
• finish reading Farewell, My Lovely, which I have read before, but I need to have fully refreshed for my book group. Also, because it's fun.
• Decide what other reading material to bring.

Possibly, I may have a meltdown or two before all of this is accomplished . . . but then, I will be on a plane and we will be, eventually, in Dublin. Seeing the papers of W.B. Yeats, seeing other exhibitions of various stuff, eating in a pub or so, having picnics, taking a trainride to the Ring of Kerry, shopping and seeing a movie with my daughter, and making paintings with my granddaughters.

Party ice.

Also, while we're on the topic, the best ice in the world is pebble ice. I had iced tea at the Beehive today, and the pebble ice made it perfect. What can I say? Sometimes, the small pleasures add up. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, check this out.

And while we're on the topic of small, possibly weird, pleasures, did anyone ever check out R. Kelly's crazy, I don't know, operetta? musical? hip-hopera? called Trapped in the Closet? One night, we had the television on and chanced upon it on IFC, and whoa, what kind of drugs is that guy on? If you want to see it, you can see it here.

And finally, ladies and gentlemen, Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton square off. Maybe you've already seen it, but wow:



These can seem like dark and scary days, so a little party ice, especially if it's the pebble variety, is in order, just for a little lift.

Poll.

If you're reading a book of poems, would you prefer:

1. a book with strong thematic and tonal unity
2. a book that is more various--in subject matter, tone, form
3. I hate poetry
4. are you talking about a seamless machine versus a kluged-together book? I love the word "kluge," so I want the kluged book. Okay, "various."

Please share your predilections with me. The future of poetry depends upon it. (not true, I don't know why I even said that.)

A new word my dad brought to my attention:

Say it with me now:

American Heritage Dictionary kludge or kluge (klōōj)
n. Slang

1. A system, especially a computer system, that is constituted of poorly matched elements or of elements originally intended for other applications.
2. A clumsy or inelegant solution to a problem.

[From ironic use of earlier kluge, smart, clever, from spelling pronunciation of German kluge, from Middle High German kluc, from Middle Low German klōk.]
kludge v., kludg'y adj.

Use it in a sentence:

"My dad was a great kluger. He used to wrap this one fuse that kept blowing in tin foil and then stick it back in. It worked out okay."

My dad taught this word to me. According to my dad and my mom, the word always carries with it a slightly pejorative connotation, even when the kluging is clever and efficacious. Also, add the additional form of the word, kluger, i.e., one who kluges.

I feel this word is, and will be for the foreseeable future, a precious addition to my working vocabulary. I intend to use it several times a day, and urge you to do the same. Remember: everyone needs to kluge, on some level or another. For instance, when I just read this post to my dad, he laughed, and said, "You oughta see the way I've got my television system set up at home." Also, apparently my mom is a talented kluger. Who knew.

Glimpses.

Dinner for the boy



















asleep in the car



















Moon.

Some things to do when you're in heaven, or environs.

Watch this, or this.
Line edit your poems.
Walk out and look at the amazing sky.
Do a crossword.
Dream.
Make dinner with your daughter and eat it with her and her family.

Get a load of this.

Because Idaho is so beautiful (pronounce that with at least four syllables, please), today I was able to do a rough cut of my re-engineered manuscript, Hymn (2.0). And also to make jam.

In which The Megastore is interpellated by an agent of the state.

Somewhere in Idaho. The Camry of Power pulls to the shoulder of the road because it is being hailed by the flashing lights of The Law.

HTMS: [fumbles in glove compartment for registration and insurance card. She knows what's coming, all right.]
Agent of the State: Good afternoon, ma'am.
HTMS: Hello, sir.
AotS: I clocked you going at 83 miles per hour as you exited a construction zone, and the speed limit was 65. Any reason you were going that fast?
HTMS: [she is shocked! shocked!] I think I completely missed that it was a construction zone. [Improbable, yet quite true.]
AotS: Well, the speed limit here is 75, so you were still going pretty fast. [pause, so that this truth can sink deep into the sinner's soul.] Can I take a look at your driver's license?
HTMS: Sure. [humbled.] Here it is.
AotS: And your registration and proof of insurance.
HTMS: Here's my . . . registration [so freaking many documents!] and . . . here's my insurance card.
AotS: [inspects documents. Carefully. The speeder might be a dangerous felon fleeing from a crime, in a Camry.] Where are you coming from today, ma'am?
HTMS: Salt Lake. [internal, heavy sigh.]
AotS: And what's your destination?
HTMS: The Indy 500? [this is a patent untruth. HTMS did not say "The Indy 500." Instead, she reported her actual destination, which is "Heaven on the Snake River," in eastern Idaho.]
AotS: [gives what passes for a smile among Agents of the State.] Okay, ma'am: can you make sure to pay a little more attention . . .
HTMS: [obsequious] Yes, sir.
AotS: . . . and if you set your cruise control at 75, that'll help you stay within the speed limit.
HTMS: [again, obsequious, as if this has never, ever occurred to her, and as if, in fact, she hadn't set her cruise control at 81 when she was hailed by Agent of the State in the first place.] Yes, sir!
AotS: [hands documents back to HTMS] You have a nice day, ma'am.
HTMS: Thank you, sir. You too, sir.

Analysis: Can you believe how many times I said "sir"? I am positive that I said "sir" about a million times. On the other hand, all that sirring produced an outcome of no ticket. A positive outcome, I'm sure you'll agree.

Conclusion: Humble + repentant + unsurly + say "sir" a lot = an encounter with The Law with no ill consequences. Also, as the PanOpticated girl I am, I did not speed for the remainder of the journey. Also, and you may have never thought of this, but if you set your cruise control for the actual speed limit, you probably won't speed! Think about it!

Deconstruction of a fashion magazine cover.

Attack of the killer tomatoes.

Predictably, there are so many tomatoes in my kitchen right now, I could plotz. Awhile ago, I made a deal with myself that I have mostly kept, not to eat tomatoes except when they are in season. That means that from August through September, there are tomatoes galore at the market, which I buy in unreasonable amounts, because when you can only eat them for two months, you want to get your fill.

I buy them from the Tremonton farmers (aka Tremonton Girl), our regular farmers, Chad, and the Savages. The ones from the Savages are the ones I use for roasting--they're good, round, red tomatoes that aren't too fancy, and the Savages sell 'em pretty cheap. Today I roasted 15 pounds of them, and that takes care of a lot of tomatoes.
But there are still lots of them! Lots! In every possible color, shape and size. For lunch, I had a slice of bread with slices of yellow tomato on it, very delicious. Tonight, we had gazpacho, which can use up a bunch of tomatoes; roasted green beens with a tomato/garlic/basil dressing; and a corn salad, also with some tomatoes in it. And there are still! lots!

Tomorrow I am going to make some caprese salad, a tomato topping for bruschetta, and a frittata, which I will top with sliced tomatoes. I predict that I will still not have used them up. But by golly we will eat them all, and have a good time doing it, because when they're gone, they're gone, and no hothouse tomato will take their place. It will be a long tomatoless winter, so now is the hour to get our fill.

Screentime.

I had breakfast with my sisters, my niece, my mom and my aunt today. After that, the historian and I went to the farmer's market and bought

• 15 pounds of tomatoes from the savages (for roasting)
• a half-bushel of peaches for bottling
• basil
• pears
• mint
• potatoes, onions, garlic
• a melon
• cherry tomatoes
• other sundry and beautiful tomatoes from Tremonton girl
• carrots

Then, I found the following for you:

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog Interviews Star Wars Fans Waiting in Line for Attack of the Clones [This is hilarious but if you're not familiar with Triumph's oeuvre, it is rude and profane. And hilarious.]

Exclusive first look: Inside Colette x Gap [Explanatory note: The Gap is doing some kind of limited partnership with the French retailer Colette. The "exclusive first look" appears on New York Magazine's fashion blog, The Cut, which is exploding with activity because this is Fashion Week in New York! I know you already know that. ANYWAY: the exclusive first look is, literally, photos someone snapped through the front window of the store as the employees are setting up merchandise. Somehow, this strikes me as hilarious, and also also also fascinating, but in a sad way.]

This Strange Map, courtesy of Strange Maps, "The World As Seen From Paris." This reminds me of the map that was on the cover of The New Yorker, showing the United States from a New Yorker's point of view. Uncoincidentally, you can also find this on Strange Maps, along with a thoughtful discussion:
























And, for the kids, Candylion:

In which I go to the movies. A lot.

I think it's high time for a movie round-up, don't you?

Since my last movie report (I consider that to have been my completion of the superhero movie sweep), I have seen the following:

1. Pineapple Express: I really enjoyed this movie until about the last third. James Franco gives an entirely inspired performance that I am going on record as saying will be iconic in the category of stoner characters. It got too violent, so much so that it felt like a whole different movie in the last third. Also, why would anyone use Rosie Perez and not give her a funny role? I call that a failure of imagination on the part of the filmmakers. Finally, though, when Seth Rogen first sees Ms. Perez, who plays a corrupt cop, he says, from within a cloud of apparently ambrosial dope-smoke, "What an adorable cop!" So maybe it was worth it, just for that line.

2. Vicky Cristina Barcelona: Believe it or not, this movie was pretty much completely enjoyable. The young women were both good, and Scarlett Johannson had a nice performance for which she seemed well-cast. Rebecca Hall, who plays her friend Vicky, however, is revelatory, and Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are perfect, wonderful, magnificent. There's always someone in the film who has to channel Woody Allen--both Johansson and Hall do it at least a little bit--but it didn't mar the film at all, in part because there were these two magnetic presences offsetting the Allenesque style/aesthetic/neurosis (take your pick of nouns). Lovely. Life-affirming.

3. Tell No One: See earlier post for my rant about too much exposition. However, the leading man, François Cluzet, gives a terrific, riveting, intense performance, and Kristin Scott-Thomas and Marie-Josée Croze are also very good. I guess I sort of forgive the film for the exposition, but I cannot rave about it the way so many critics did. Have they no standards? How soft are they? (Go ahead, laugh--I want you to. I know I have no standards and that I am soft. I am reveling in this severity I feel about the exposition. Reveling.)

4. Brideshead Revisited: I enjoyed this movie scene for scene and performance for performance. However, I just could not get revved up about it. It felt like there was almost nothing at stake . . . in a movie about the oppressions of organized religion. You'd think I might find a thing or two to care about there! But no. Ultimately, this movie felt decorous and well-made. It should have broken my heart and ravished me. It did not, and too bad for that.

5. The Edge of Heaven: This film is wonderful, beautiful, almost perfect. It has everything to recommend it and almost nothing to detract. It is beautifully written and performed and it does break your heart, as it should. Don't miss this movie!

6. Elegy: Another amazing performance by the beautiful and utterly soulful Penelope C., as well as Ben Kingsley in a great role, a jerk of an English professor (is there any other kind?). I knew I wanted to see this and I also knew it had every chance to make me hate it--aging guy, much younger woman, and he has to learn a lesson and become a better person. See? So easy for this movie to be just awful. But not only was it not awful, it was, I thought, beautiful and very moving. I think this is due to the absolute perfection of the performances. Dennis Hopper also gives a great performance as another asshole--this time, a poet (is there any other kind?). Deborah Harry (yes, of Blondie) plays Hopper's wife, briefly and memorably.

7. Man on Wire: The blurbs for this film used all kinds of superlatives to praise it, and, as with many documentaries, I wondered, okay, well, but don't I sort of already get it? A guy, okay a French guy, walked on a wire between the World Trade Center towers. Well, yes, that is the gist of it, but the film is far more wonderful and ineffable than that summary; the ineffability comes in equal parts from the archival footage, lovely reenactments, and the interviews. It seems miraculous, as with any work of art, that someone would think of this feat and execute it. This is another one not to miss.

And finally, tonight,

8. Frozen River. This is director Courtney Hunt's first feature, and it is really very good. Mostly very straightforward, narratively, but the setting--an economically depressed part of upstate New York, bordering on the Mohawk reservation, which spans the U.S. Canada border--is so meticulously and carefully delineated, and the characters are so evocatively developed, that it becomes a complex dramatic and moral document. Really a wonderful film. Melissa Leo, who looks as if she has lived the life of her character, is splendid and amazing. Lovely, too.

In conclusion, please go to the movies and see one of these awesome films. Sneak your own snacks in (just bring a really big purse, or if you don't have one, bring someone who does, so long as s/he will allow you to put your Slurpee, your Milk Duds, and your Slim Jims in there. Not really. I never eat Slim Jims, or Slurpees. Milk Duds, though.).

Did not/did.

On my recent trip to Idaho I did not

1. Sit in a lounge or coffee shop equipped with wireless to do sundry laptop related activity.
2. Feel fine, despite having slept in Idaho, because this nagging cold/allergy/sinus thing keeps lingering (f***ing lingerer!).
3. Read more than a page or two in my book (Through the Children's Gate: A Home in New York, by Adam Gopnik).
4. Listen to music on the way to Idaho or on the way back.

I did, however,

1. Take a nap in the car whilst nephew and sister-in-law were checking in at the dorms.
2. Visit a Wal-Mart.
3. Buy new OTC sinus-related medication that is genius. [¡Medication Update! It is DayQuil Sinus. I am finding it excellent and very very helpful.]
   
4. Listen to sister-in-law read highly amusing passages from Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid in the car on the way home.
5. Eat breakfast at MacDonald's (breakfast burrito, y'all!) in Rexburg.
6. hear a woman say "Me encantaria si tu viera botes asi,"* regarding my awesome boots, in said MacDonald's parking lot in Rexburg.
   

*It would enchant me were I to have boots like that.

Idaho, suckers.

That's where I am, just for overnight: yeah, that's right, I drove to Idaho just to spend the night. Because I can, that's why.

Actually, I drove with my sister-in-law and nephew, who dashed in from Portland. Said nephew is about to check in to BYU-Idaho, the college formerly known as Ricks, for his freshman year. Once upon a time, I aspired to go to Ricks, because it would have meant I would be near my grandfolks, and because I thought Idaho was the navel of the world. I might have been twelve at the time. Now, I just want to live here, maybe own a little grocery store, make soup to sell to fisherpeople and other outdoorsy types. It's a modest dream, but it's my dream, and I figure I will keep on dreaming it till I die. In the meantime, I will just hightail it up to Idaho lickety split whenever the urge strikes, or when I have a nephew who needs a ride up to Rexburg, whichever comes first.

Looking back.

Today I spent an hour or so writing in a book. That's right, you heard it here: pen, paper, by hand, in a book.

Awhile ago I had the insight that there was a usefulness in keeping a daybook--a way to record my emotional temperature, as it were, and speaking of climate change, as well as the little things I notice and think. Over the years, such a practice has yielded plenty of poems, but it's also a way to frame my days and think through them. Something about writing by hand, I think, makes a difference.

Of course, the fact that I had this insight didn't mean that I actually kept the daybook. In fact, the book isn't quite half full, and I have entries dating back to 2002. Most of my composing I've been doing, for years now, at a keyboard. Anyway, looking back through it gives me a glimpse at certain themes: I love flowers. I love observing the weather. And I think I should simplify my life to make more space for writing.

In 2002: "Today, silence, the joy of it. The only trouble with silence is, it makes me a little giddy, what to do with it all."

In 2003: "Wanting more time, quiet time."

May 2003: "Want to keep focused, and also to stay relaxed. Feel I should start writing this week. Long enough from school--time to start. Want to make headway."

August 2003: "not trusting myself--this crazy this so easily off-balanced"

And this, January 2004:

I want order but not law.
I want time.
I want the field in back of my house to stay a field.
I want to wake up to my husband's body forever.
I want fire.
I want color, sparkle, and gleam.
I want the spangled garment of my flesh to flash like a fish in sunlit water.
I want light feet, vertical leap, speed.
I want language, my familiar, to sleep and wake with me like cat.
I want all my chances back.

Messages from a different world.

From Running Son, in Malaysia:

for all of those who thought i would starve in a place like malaysia, you haven't heard of Elder Bickmore's Hot Dog Routi Surprise...it's a delicious meal that i have created...routi is pretty much the best thing i have ever tasted, truly a malaysian delight...i think it is indian food though...it's like a tortilla but a million times better and probably a million times less healthy but anyways i cook some macaroni and cheese, hot dog, fries, wrap it in the routi and put some ketchup on, it's delicious, my comp wouldn't believe me at first, but now he eats it all the time, it's glorious

Apparently, you can take the boy out of the U.S., but you can't take the U.S. out of the boy.

In other news, I am reading prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, who just wrote American Wife, based on an imagined life of Laura Bush; we had an awesome dinner; we took Bruiser for a walk at noon because it was so cool, and now he wants another one; I made cake. Cake! Hello, September!