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Today's subject line is from Stephen Dobyns's [His Life Was the Practice], from the December 2001 issue of Poetry. Based on my scribble, the reason I actually tore that page out of the issue was on the other side: W. S. Merwin's To the Mistakes.
My mother died on St. Patrick's Day 2008. My honorary mama died on March 19, 2018. So I tend to be a little dour right after the Ides of March. In recent years, when feasible, my habit has been to attend an English country dancefest in North Carolina and with a few days added on for solo wandering, followed by a night or two with honorary mama's niece.
I managed not to scowl at the mini-St. Patrick's Day caravan honking at me yesterday on my way to the post office, and even replied "Slainte mhath!" to one family, though I will admit to also fretting about whether they'd mistake what I said for Chinese instead of Irish.
There were no napkins or TP rolls at the supermarkets I stopped at yesterday, but we have cloth options here at home for the former, and assorted alternatives for the latter, should we not be able to restock. At the Lipstick Lounge, there is a post-tornado banner proclaiming something like "our lipstick got smeared, but we're still open!" next to a much smaller sign stating that they're closed by order of the health department. The international market did have Korean turnips and Chinese-style sausages and a variety of mushrooms, so I will make turnip cake later this week. (My pantry has an overabundance of unusual flours from past festivities. Time to use them up.)
Last night, though, I heated up a chana masala bowl and clomped upstairs to hunt for a letter I'd been meaning to reply to. It's still in some "I'll look at this again soon" cluster I have yet to identify, but in the meantime, I managed to reduce the mess a bit. Into the recycling bin or reuse bag/tray: cards from people I haven't heard from in years; assorted incoherent drafts of poetry (although I kinda like "the songs / all have it wrong / the graves stay quiet / it's the living / that won't shut up and let be" -- but that isn't going to go anywhere, since I'm firmly Team Living Raising Hell to Do Right by the Dead, fondness for old English ballads notwithstanding); old "achievement test" results, which are hilariously bizarre (my 1986 results scored me at "above average" for everything except English and economics...); an envelope full of Japanese and Korean gum wrappers and cartoons (from a friend traveling around 1987), including this one:
A typo I've been committing frequently lately -- typing "joy" instead of "hoy" (the latter means "today" in Spanish). Yesterday I caught myself writing "experimental" when I meant "experienced." Time to brew some more porcupine tea and buckle down.
My mother died on St. Patrick's Day 2008. My honorary mama died on March 19, 2018. So I tend to be a little dour right after the Ides of March. In recent years, when feasible, my habit has been to attend an English country dancefest in North Carolina and with a few days added on for solo wandering, followed by a night or two with honorary mama's niece.
I managed not to scowl at the mini-St. Patrick's Day caravan honking at me yesterday on my way to the post office, and even replied "Slainte mhath!" to one family, though I will admit to also fretting about whether they'd mistake what I said for Chinese instead of Irish.
There were no napkins or TP rolls at the supermarkets I stopped at yesterday, but we have cloth options here at home for the former, and assorted alternatives for the latter, should we not be able to restock. At the Lipstick Lounge, there is a post-tornado banner proclaiming something like "our lipstick got smeared, but we're still open!" next to a much smaller sign stating that they're closed by order of the health department. The international market did have Korean turnips and Chinese-style sausages and a variety of mushrooms, so I will make turnip cake later this week. (My pantry has an overabundance of unusual flours from past festivities. Time to use them up.)
Last night, though, I heated up a chana masala bowl and clomped upstairs to hunt for a letter I'd been meaning to reply to. It's still in some "I'll look at this again soon" cluster I have yet to identify, but in the meantime, I managed to reduce the mess a bit. Into the recycling bin or reuse bag/tray: cards from people I haven't heard from in years; assorted incoherent drafts of poetry (although I kinda like "the songs / all have it wrong / the graves stay quiet / it's the living / that won't shut up and let be" -- but that isn't going to go anywhere, since I'm firmly Team Living Raising Hell to Do Right by the Dead, fondness for old English ballads notwithstanding); old "achievement test" results, which are hilariously bizarre (my 1986 results scored me at "above average" for everything except English and economics...); an envelope full of Japanese and Korean gum wrappers and cartoons (from a friend traveling around 1987), including this one:
A typo I've been committing frequently lately -- typing "joy" instead of "hoy" (the latter means "today" in Spanish). Yesterday I caught myself writing "experimental" when I meant "experienced." Time to brew some more porcupine tea and buckle down.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-19 01:33 am (UTC)From:If I never eat corned beef and cabbage again it will be too damn soon, because that is what people brought in both cases, and I wish my brain could transmute it into "this is food of people taking care of me," but no, it is just death food for me.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-19 04:18 am (UTC)From:For my dad's memorial service, I deliberately picked carnations because they were a flower I already hated.