Felicity & Ferocity

overenthusiastic monkey grass

Have been weeding overenthusiastic monkey grass, and mulching (tenses: am weeding, have wed) for grounds for many many hours this week. There's nothing like being elbow deep in a truck ful of steaming mulch ("There's some lovely filth over here, Dennis!") And have come to find that when I get home, half of the tan I have acquired for the day washes off. I think I have the black lung, pop! (*eheh, eheh*!)

What kind of art, you ask? What kind of art is this penniless and starving artist about? (Well, one of you asked anyway). Oh, just stuff. I like making books mostly. (I used to worry myself that I could go into bookstores and look at the BLANK books for hours). Makin stuff with my hands-- which includes painting (I'm not very good at it), making cards, scrapbooks, books for friends, writing, writing a lot, writing poetry, reading poetry, drawing, makin a quilt. Today I have begun teaching myself from a book (not a blank one this time) how to sew a book together.

And as soon as I start earning some real cash, I will start making em Direct Deposit to Michael's craft store.

All this is good and well, but I have a feeling it often distracts me from spending quality time with Shadow, which I will come over and practice on your porch if you want me to, bob.

For those also who have mentioned something about me becoming a boozehound, I'm just going to go home and... bite my pillow.

Am about to go and help some freshmen move in... the overenthusiastic monkeys.

but one last thing: from Hack's Poetry Corner: If you want to subscribe yourself, go to Writer's Almanac
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/ That should do it for ya. There should be a place to subscribe to a daily smattering of good reading.

Today's poem:

Poem: "Unharvested" by Robert Frost from The Poetry of Robert Frost © Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Unharvested

A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady's fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.

May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.

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Posted by hackenstar at August 21, 2004 02:57 PM