I’m sharing pictures Maggie sent of the sculpture she mentioned in recent comments. It’s 12 inches long. The artist: Beverly Thomas. Apparently Thomas doesn’t have a website but her gallery info is listed further down. Below is what Maggie, a sculptor in her own right by the way, had to say about the piece.
In other news. I looked out the window at 6:02 and couldn’t see the moon. A total eclipse of the Blood Moon seems portentous on Election Day, wouldn’t you say?
K has gone to the office, so Finn and I will make our loop alone. We did yesterday too because of a business call which gave me the opportunity to listen to the sixth episode of Rachel Maddow’s newest podcast, Ultra. Holy shit. Did you know that in the 40’s there was a Nazi plot to overthrow our government? Not just Nazi sympathizers, including in Congress (which would be shocking enough), but a Nazi spy here on our soil and actual Nazi propaganda from Hitler’s government being distributed through congressional offices to constituents.
My Tuesday morning Indivisible call is cancelled today. I call us The Seven Sisters now by the way. Two of us are out at the polls helping with ballot correction or oversight — one in Georgia and another in New Hampshire. A third has been working the phones for North Carolina. The rest of us have been writing Postcardstovoters. Whatever else happens today, I am proud of these women and honored to call them friends.
Keep the faith! I’d say See you on the other side but results will be a while in coming (she said with a veneer of calm). I remain optimistic.
“I wonder if it’s possible to will myself into spontaneous combustion.”
Aleyna Rentz, from Cincinnati Review
That was the prompt for this piece of writing
Charred bones hold a certain
appeal. A ravaging by fire
before crumbling into the dirt of
Malva up the street bloom
in the palest of pinks. And now
hosta send up the sturdy
stalks of their flowers. July,
this July coming, is still familiar
to them in a way to me
it is not.
Hair shooting out of my scalp
transformed into poison darts
would more clearly show
the neighbors who I am
than the little waves, nods,
the purse across the chest,
holding phone and dog treats
as if the old rules of communication and reward still apply.
The house remains standing. The grass
grows in the fits and starts
indicative of shade. This morning
the dog sat on the deck planks
still wet from last night’s rain. He
was listening. Dogs are always
Would it help to shave my
head? To craft an embroidered
badge saying I’M DONE or WAKE UP?
To make visible the roiling
disappointment, so roiling,
so disappointed as to render the
Old styles of rebellion will not
hold. Saving democracy is
not a style decision, as much as
we might like it to be.
Revelation after damning revelation
and STILL we wonder: will it matter?
We’re talking a femoral bleed.
Grasping around to find
a tourniquet, placing the life-
saving band around the body
but forgetting how to tie a knot.
“No July 4 for me this year,” say
some, while many others have
never had much to celebrate about
our so-called independence, our
A flawed past does not
condemn us to tyranny. Please, someone,
make magnets saying that so I can put
them eye-level on the fridge, linking
hunger and hope and reason.
We don’t forget to eat, so
why should we forget to dream big?
To believe in possibility?
The squirrels chip at the air
with their throats. I used to think
it was the cardinals.
Somewhere, someone mows a
lawn. Somewhere, someone gets
water off a truck because lead
contaminates their water. Local
jack hammers signify home
improvement. Federal jack
hammering comes in the form
of 6-3 opinions. They
are blasting away at basic assumptions,
at long-held rights, at
the beliefs and needs of the majority — at
their own jurisprudence.
Who do you talk to in the
still of the night? Some nights
it is the ghost of my mother.
Other nights it is my own
nervous system. Sometimes
my children show up as absence
and silence and that keeps me
Not all loss is national and
I have my snacks ready
for the next set of revelations.
A friend is coming to sit by and
watch with me.
How we connect now matters more than ever.
Last night the sky blazed
orange. Chips of light between
maple and beech trees like mosaics.
It’s hard to remember the world
when you are perpetually walking
between kitchen and living room,
bathroom and bed. COVID, anyone? Or should I say: COVID for EVERYONE!
The world as defiled. The
world as holy. I don’t need
to shave my head to show
how my heart is trembling.
*. *. *.
This was written to a prompt in my Tuesday Amherst Writers and Artists workshop — the last until mid-August. The prompt was the Rentz quote above which appeared in a piece titled The Land of Uz. Cincinnati Review, Fall ’21.
The photo of Hutchinson was taken from a PBS website, but it is everywhere. I ran it through a filter in the Prisma app.
P.S. if you look carefully at the fairy-lights-photo, you will see Finn behind the glass door.
Obsession really. I made another mini-movie but I know WordPress won’t upload it. So here are some pix from it put together in mosaic groups or singly, instead.
It’s rainy. This was the second hottest July on record. I didn’t walk at all today, but there were pancakes on the side porch (not on the patio because neighbors had a bday party in their backyard), two crossword puzzles, kitchen counter bleaching. I talked shop with another author. Visited a local friend and sat out on her back porch. Tea. Apricot jam and crackers.
So sad that HBO’s Perry Mason is over. It was intense, stylish, well-acted with interesting takes on what Mason’s backstory might’ve looked like.
But Endeavour is on, so that’s good.
I ran out of olive oil today so put in a second grocery order with Amazon fresh. I am certain I shall go to carbon footprint hell for all the packaging. It’s bad. I’m bad. And at the same time, I feel like I might never grocery shop again.
One backpack full of 12 books delivered to empty neighborhood kiosk.
Three ten hour days spent fixing TV computer. One call to Comcast. Endless searches on internet. Number of consecutive good night’s sleep in absence of TV news? FIVE. Number of heroes in this story? One. My husband.
Six hundred words deleted over three hours, the equivalent of roughly 1 1/2 pages. Number of words still to delete? Don’t ask. Number of times I’ll wring my hands before the second draft’s done? Also — don’t ask.
Number of metal utensils laid out to deter dog-thieving: six. Batches of cookies baked: seven, two of them doubles. One ball of dough left.
Articles of impeachment written: two. Number of articles that COULD HAVE been written (spitballing, here): 25. Still to come: full House vote and one major shit storm in the Senate. Number of years poised at the edge of the abyss: 243.
Number of times I felt dismayed reading black twitter’s critiques of Warren: too many to count.
Seasons of The Kominksy Method watched: 1 1/2 (highly recommend).
Total library fines owed: eek! I don’t know.
Number of times I paused to notice the absence of my sister: at least a dozen. Some moments marked by relief, others by grief.
Number of rallies in support of impeachment planned for tomorrow (the eve of the House vote): more than 600.
Number of times I’ve tipped my head back to admire trees since reading “The Overstory” — too many to count. Number of people to whom I gave copies: three.
Two trips to the PO in the last five days qualifies me as a fucking saint. Three mice mailed, three mini-cloth houses.
Number of meds I forgot to take yesterday: four. Number I did take: two.
Number of days I just let go by without opening my laptop: two.
Eight days till Christmas, five ’til the shortest day of the year.
Here’s wishing all of you lots of love and joy in the days to come.
Back to the morning pages. Must do. (after an inexplicable and lengthy lapse). Sessions on stationary bike are up to 25 minutes. Must keep doing. (my trick some days? Get on the bike and scroll through social media there instead of in bed. Redemptive!)
The sun is out!
Now for a few “of only’s”:
If only I would give up sugar again…. if only we still had a Congress… if only a crime syndicate in cahoots with a foreign adversary wasn’t destroying our society with a head-spinning rapidity… if only the Dyson vac hadn’t crapped out… if only I were the type of person to follow up on a warranty… if only Salem were 25 minutes closer… if only I were more disciplined. Sigh.
I leave you with this incisive and disturbing article by Rebecca Solnit — heroine to many of you, I know. She articulates where we are in America with terrifying clarity.