Different not Less, Poem by Linda Gregg.

Another case of books from the attic reveals my collage years: more Virginia Woolf, my copy of Ulysses (which I read in Dublin in 1976), lots of Arthurian legend and early medieval literature, lots of volumes of poetry, including Linda Gregg.

They are like lost friends, in part because I didn’t remember that I had saved them. That doesn’t mean I want to keep them.

We got some much needed rain yesterday and today it was cool enough to turn on the heat for a little while.

I had this memory pop up this morning: northern Berkshires, mid-70’s, my mother dressing for work in front of an open oven with the red electric coils emanating heat. She would have already used a heated element on the stovetop to lean in and light the day’s first cigarette.

It’s felt like Friday to me since Tuesday.

Even before Halloween I start to think about little Christmas gifts. When we were in Maine I bought some more rovings so that I’ll have more color choices for needle felting. Oh boy! I find relief in small projects, those with gifting as an aim, those without underlying messages.