Into the Wild Wood and Home Again

It'd be really difficult to deny that autumn is upon us, regardless of the calendar. Foggy mornings, chill temps, and bright sunny afternoons are all lovely. But sad, too. I really need to gird myself to go out to the garden boxes and consider what to keep and what to let go.  I suppose there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm not pushing for it. I'm tired. School and home chores and so on-- that's enough to occupy my mind and energy lately. There's so much I want to get done, but it would require some help, so I will likely try, metaphorical hat in hand, to see if there's any chance of Meg helping me do some of the things. She's got her own list of stuff to contend with, so I hate to ask. But tomorrow, when G is home, the weather is supposed to be just awful-- mid-50s and pouring rain. Not a good day to do anything much except bake and grade papers, and yell at football (of course).  It always makes me sad to see the garden go. I had such plans. I...

If you know me, then you know I have an astounding collection of nerdy/sarcastic tee shirts. Mostly short sleeve, but some long, so today, as it's "casual Friday," there should be no surprise anywhere for anyone I'm wearing one of my stellar assortment. (And before you say, hey, there's a lot of ego there, let's just say, one must fake it 'til they make it, and these shirts help.) Today's offering: Em-dash energy-- Oxford comma values. And I can pretty much guarantee that NO one will know what it means. And that it pretty much sums up the contradictions (complexity?) that is me. Whitman would approve: "I contain multitudes." It galls me that one of the so-called "tells" that people use to assert that something is AI-generated is the use of em-dashes. Dang it all. I love those. And I use them.  My brain likes to interrupt itself, and when I'm writing -- and speaking, but you can't see them if it's a spoken sentence-- I in...

I woke up with " Losing My Mind " from Follies in my head. I have no clue why. Just the last two phrases on repeat, actually: All afternoon Doing every little chore The thought of you stays bright Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor Not going left Not going right I dim the lights And think about you Spend sleepless nights To think about you You said you loved me Or were you just being kind? Or am I losing my mind? And before anyone thinks there's trouble in my personal little paradise, there isn't. It's bigger than that, I think. Reading about forklifts ramming the columns at the Kennedy Center to inflict intentional damage, to justify the stranglehold that is being enacted on the institution and, by extension, all of us, is enough to make a person question their sanity.  The arts keep us alive. They recount the trials, tribulations, loves, sorrows, and aspirations of the Collective. And here's one Philistine kicking over a sandcastle not of his makin...

The night-time temps are on a yo-yo string. This morning's temperature was almost 20 degrees warmer. Weird. I really should go browse the garden and see what needs picking. If anything. The tomatoes are waning down, but there may be green beans. And I am still nonplused about the silly squash plants. They are beautiful plants, had gorgeous blossoms... but nada production. I'll figure that out today, perhaps. There may be one or two tiny ones hiding under all those leaves.  I am tired this morning, too--entirely my fault--I've gotten really hooked on the show on Britbox I wrote about the other day, Monarch of the Glen . It's delightfully silly and sweet. I have never watched so much television as I have this last year or so-- I think it's the fact that it provides me with a real antidote to the sturm und drang cesspool that is our daily lives as seen in the news.  It's hard to compartmentalize, isn't it? I look outside at the sky (overcast today, so far), s...

Quick note. It's chilly. 35 degrees this morning. And I woke up with the strangest mash-up running through my head: "The Tango Maureen" from Rent, but rewritten in my brain as "Cellblock 13"-- don't ask, I don't know.  Yesterday, I wrote a fairly lengthy poem, once again involving my complicated relationship with my now-dead mother. And this morning, I got an email that said one of my prose poems is long-listed for an award. I won't win, more than likely, but hey, it's on the list. Kinda cool. So maybe my brain is finally percolating with poems?  O yeah, I also got asked to speak to a Rotary luncheon about my work and how it is being an author. I asked to be put on the June schedule. It'll take me about that long to figure out how to answer the question.  Have a super day, C

Ah, Monday. You found me.  Holly got the first week of school cold. Poor bean is home sick today.  I graded a pile of essays yesterday. While I want them handwritten, why did every single kid go with pencil on white paper? Hard going. I'm going to request pen.  Most were not awful. Some were. We have work to do today.  Some of the kids who need to hear what I'm going to talk about are on a two-day field trip. Figures, eh? I have work, errands, house cleaning on my agenda. I bought one of those long-handled Swiffer 360 dusters. I'm going to battle the cobwebs. I won't win the war, but I might make things a little less festooned with grey swaths of dust and filament.  I like that phrase. Remind me to use it in a poem.  Have a good day, friends. The world is scary, and our leaders don't seem to mind that they are chaos engineers.  God help us all.  C

Temps are much warmer today (56), but it's pouring rain. Again. And yes, we probably do need it, but gee whiz. I wanted to go to the farmers' market. We'll see if this weather pushes off. If not, so be it.  I've been immersed in a fun series on BritBox called Monarch of the Glen . It's funny and sweet, and, for those of us of a certain age, it sort of has Newhart vibes. At any rate, it's a pleasant diversion, of which we all have a real need, I think. Among its engaging cast is an actor that I know from Shakespearean plays, chiefly Much Ado About Nothing . Richard Briers plays the "old laird" MacDonald, and he's spot-on: funny, curmudgeonly, endearing. There are seven seasons, so I'll be set for a bit.  Today, though, I have a stack of essays to grade. Likely some will be fine, others will be iffy, and I know there are a couple that are going to be heavy lifting (metaphorically speaking). My Brit Lit crew is not the most energetic or enthusias...