Last Sunday I dragged my slothful bum out of bed in time to get to the St. Paul farmers' market. I made enough pesto to last the rest of the summer and my house was bright with basil smell for two days. And today I'm roasting beets while I wait for the vet who makes house calls to arrive and check on my lethargic cat, Macaroni and Cheese (my favorite two year old named him fourteen years ago) (Peter asked if a vet who makes housecalls is expensive, and I realized I forgot to ask. Oh well. There's no alternative; this animal melts down at the sight of his carrier.) (What a great lot of parentheses.) So I am trying to stay busy and distracted. Writing isn't working especially well. My Kant-For-Kinda-Smart-Dummies book isn't working. Curiously, cleaning isn't working. So, I made my first "mix" which I have dubbed "lonely romantic mix" and it consists of the following songs:
Cloud Cult: Transistor Radio (go figure)
This Mortal Coil: Song to the Siren
Lhasa: De Cara A la Pared
Cat Power: The Moon
Calexico: Alone Again, Or
Linda and Teddy Thompson: Evona Darling
Dean Martin: Money Burns a Hole in my Pocket
Jeff Buckley: Hallelujah
Seu Jorge: Life on Mars?
Flaming Lips: Do You Realize??
Elvis Costello: Almost Blue
The Jayhawks: Blue
Cat Power: After it All
Elliot Smith: Strung Out Again
Echo and the Bunnymen: What if We Are
Richard and Linda Thompson: Dimming of the Day/Dargai
I am currently feeling neither particularly lonely nor romantic by the way. The mix was originally titled Death by Pretty, and may revert back, except I feel like I stole that name from somewhere. (I don't think I invented "lonely romantic" either but it is generic enough to be public domain.)
If anybody wants to come over and gorge him/herself on ridiculous portions of summer or petit pan squash, that would probably be the most helpful thing. Otherwise I'll get back to work. I have managed some revision today. Here's proof:
I lied about believing the lie.
I’m tired of the water running out.
That the ocean is endless, yet I will
still be thirsty when I’m dead,
buzzed on the miniscule reflection of stars,
and the moon – that shovel with a face:
Some truths make nothing better.
This is no kind of sonnet; I’m sorry.
Poor moon I don’t want. Poor
Shakespeare we can deposit in a boat.
A single day keeps on ending
like a diorama after the science fair.
Like a book of psalms. Separate
we ingest and then we are changed.
I could have chosen to keep this to myself.
When we think we become a structure.
Box-like? Sometimes. Still, not very
cleverly, we mostly react to things.
Like getting alarmed by an alarm.
Or by the used up goodnesses.
Another example is how no one
ever asks what a key is. We always
ask what a key is to. There is no
key to a doll head in the road,
its eyes stabbed out. Somewhere
in a house on my block there remains
a box a doll should go in.
At least, I don’t recognize the key
in that scenario, which could mean
my original intention may not have been
the best. That has only just occurred to me.