Glow

Last Wednesday night I shut down the computer, set the alarm, and tumbled into bed. A minute later, Sylvie jumped up and I opened my eyes as she nuzzled my nose in the dark, then settled down by my elbow.

Something above the curtains winked greenly. Car headlights sweep the ceiling, and the buttons on the DSL box glows all night, so I thought nothing of a small light in the room.

Until the cat made a slashing leap across my body. My eyes popped open to see the green glow six inches away from my face. *flash*flash*flash* It floated soundlessly towards the wall. *flash*flash*flash* I had a lightning bug in my bedroom.

First I tried to ignore it. I wanted to sleep, but evidently Sylvie determined to catch this blinking light, so much like a fun laser pointer game. She was going to walk all over me all night.

I shuffled out to the kitchen in search of a jar to catch the beetle in. I came up with an empty cat food can and a folded paper towel. Luckily the lightning bug was very close to the wall. Without turning the lights on, I centered the can over the ethereal glow and brushed the insect in.

I covered the can with the paper towel. *flash*flash*flash* filtered through the towel, reminding me of childhood games played with a flashlight. Humid air left over after the evening’s storms rolled into the living room as I lifted the screen and shook the bug into the thick night. *flash* then he was gone from view.

After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him. I flip-flopped out to the backyard where myriads of his kind pulsed over the knee-high weeds, dipped toward the short grass, drifted slowly heavenward. They semaphored their desire with the dust of long-imploded stars, unknowingly signaling to the same dust in me.

Reason #132 Why I'll Miss Chelsea

Walking up to the corner market (reason #133 why I'll miss Chelsea), I saw a ball of dark fluff dart under a fence in the yard I was passing. Then another...then another...ten fluff balls in all, herded along by momma wood duck.



*sigh* I'm gonna miss wood ducks on Park Street.

Wood duck photo from Willow Park Zoo in Logan, UT.

Sonnet 34

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

-- William Shakespeare

Having Trouble with My G String

On my violin, you naughty-minded thing, you.

It's been...oh, I dunno...a year? since I've had the violin out of the case at all. It was sort of in tune with itself when I pulled it out this afternoon, but totally flat. There was a horrible cracking sound as I turned the peg for the G - it hadn't been moved for probably ten years.

I don't know what note that string makes now. Not G, I know that.

Let's just say I'm a long way from being Jeremy Kittel.
But
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Better Catalpa

You can see the "beans" on the larger version of this one on my Flickr page:

Too Absorbed Lately

To notice that the catalpa is in bloom.



I hate it when I don't notice things like that. And I'm sorry I didn't get the photo on one of the blue-sky days we've been having. Maybe tomorrow?

A Wee Correction

Law School P. is spending the summer in Eugene, Oregon, not Portland, as previously reported. P. says it is much like Ann Arbor, only with even more hippies.

Hawk in the Rain regrets the error. And will be looking in on P's cats as soon as the key arrives via FedEx.

I'm Tired

I feel the same way today.



from Hugh at Gaping Void

Move date: July 1. Will be bloggin' atcha from Ann Arbor then.

I Know What I Like When I See It

The usual format of the writers' group I am in is thus: author reads, critics mull and re-read and mark up, critics discuss, and finally author is allowed to speak and answer questions.

Tonight, over plates of chicken salad wraps at the aut Bar, I read the poem posted below at 18 May. I could barely hear myself over the stereo system blaring Dido into the courtyard. When I finished, the critics sat and figeted with their pens. When the discussion rolled around, they unanimously liked it. Loved it even. Every-single-line-is-beautiful, this-is-so-sensual-and-intriguing loved it.

But they didn't know what it meant.

H. put forth several interpretations. As the group talked it over, I started to wonder if even I knew what it meant.

"It must be a good poem," S. said. "I don't understand it."
"I've decided to just leave it a mystery," said L.
"You should submit this somewhere," H. said. "Like The New Yorker."

I laughed.

M., the real poet of the group, merely winked at me and pointed out some too-ordinary words.

Absence Maketh the Blog Grow Boring

Yeah, yeah, so I took some time off. In addition to gallivanting around the greater Ann Arbor area looking for an affordable new place to live and donating to the Waterloo Rec Area Anopheles Blood Bank, here's whut I been up to:

Vinology
The Penelopiad
Ethnologue