Much Ado

I got a callback, whew. Next Wednesday, Dec. 20, 7pm. Fingers and toes still crossed.

Still working on the Margaret Atwood site. Have spent the day in the company of her poems. This woman can WRITE!

Bored All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards, distances between things, or pounded stakes into the ground for rows and rows of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored) weeded. Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats, sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel he drove, steered, paddled. It wasn't even boredom, it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details. Myopia. The worn gunwales, the intricate twill of the seat cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying bristles on the back of his neck. Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes I would. The boring rhythm of doing things over and over, carrying the wood, drying the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what the animals spend most of their time at, ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels, shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed such things out, and I would look at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier all the time then, although it more often rained, and more birdsong? I could hardly wait to get the hell out of there to anywhere else. Perhaps though boredom is happier. It is for dogs or groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored. Now I would know too much. Now I would know. Margaret Atwood

This poem raises in me the same kind of feelings as "Winter" by Tori Amos:

Winter Snow can wait I forgot my mittens Wipe my nose, get my new boots on I get a little warm in my heart When I think of winter I put my hand in my father's glove I run off Where the drifts get deeper Sleeping Beauty trips me with a frown I hear a voice: "You must learn to stand up For yourself 'Cause I can't always be around" He says when you gonna make up your mind When you gonna love you as much as I do When you gonna make up your mind 'Cause things are gonna change so fast All the white horses are still in bed I tell you that I'll always want you near You say that things change, my dear Boys get discovered As winter melts Flowers competing for the sun Years go by And I'm here still waiting Withering where some snowman was Mirror, mirror Where's the Crystal Palace But I only can see myself Skating around the truth who I am But I know, Dad, the ice is getting thin When you gonna make up your mind When you gonna love you as much as I do When you gonna make up your mind 'Cause things are gonna change so fast All the white horses are still in bed I tell you that I'll always want you near You say that things change, my dear Hair is grey And the fires are burning So many dreams on the shelf You say I wanted you to be proud of me I always wanted that myself When you gonna make up your mind When you gonna love you as much as I do When you gonna make up your mind 'Cause things are gonna change so fast All the white horses have gone ahead I tell you that I'll always want you near You say that things change, my dear Never change All the white horses Have gone.... Tori Amos

Click here to listen to "Winter"