111 Steps to Paris

99. The First Step is a Doozy

2012-07-17T15:01:00.000-07:00

Two hours into the flight. Two and a half to go, or something like that. What I affectionately refer to as my cyborg assembly- the collection of titanium rods and screws and bone grafts and denuded bone tissue that makes up my lower spine and left hip- is starting to throb. It'd be nice to get up, stretch, walk around, maybe pee.

That's Lake Tahoe.

But I got the window seat this flight. Don't get me wrong: I'm glad I got the window. It's been a while since I did, and it's actually been more fun than I had thought, peering at the land below and trying to take pictures. But it also means I'd have to wake up sleeping guy in the middle and disturb largish guy on the aisle if I wanted to get out. So. In the future, if I had to choose between window and aisle, I'd rather someone just knock me out and stow me in the dead guy room and let me sleep the whole way.

I have been trying to take pictures of other planes I see flying by. I've seen five so far, most of them traveling the opposite way. I have no idea how far away they are, but they're close enough that I can see what kind of plane it is, what airline, and all the little windows. And even though we're approaching each other at somewhere around a thousand miles an hour I have time to see it, get my camera out, and point it out the window. Then it's gone.

No plane in this picture. BUT! If you type "Green River Utah" into Google Maps
(or the map thingie of your choice) and then scroll south of there a little ways,
you can clearly see this soon-to-be-an-oxbow-lake.

Turbulence doesn't really bother me that much, but I don't like looking out the window and seeing the wing bounce and flex. I want to think of those things as strong and inviolate, not bouncy and flexy.

99^th post, huh? Pretty cool. I wish I'd have been more up on this the past few days, I could have done my 100^th one a few days ago. But I've been down, or amotivated, or drunk. Maybe all of those things, each of them feeding off the other. Megan thinks I might be having some depression, and she's pretty smart about such things. But I think, I hope, it's just temporary. There are some big whacks and upheavals that poor lil' ol' me is dealing with, and apparently that's not conducive to my writing.

Plus our apartment is thrashed. We're half moved in, half still boxed, and we've got more stuff than we have room for. I worry that the Riddler- the title I have decided to bequeath upon our new internet-leery roommate- is getting frustrated at the cardboard explosion we've visited upon what was, until we came back, a quiet, idyllic, apartment. I don't really have a workspace, which makes it hard for me to get down to business. And then we've had friends visiting... it's so difficult, you know?

I think I was expecting to get back from France and the NC tour and just sort of...slip back into my old life. But of course that's not happening. It never does. And now I've lost my pencil. I have no idea what happened to it. I mean, it's somewhere on this plane, but...it may just be gone. Like the past.

I write this sonnet with a ball-point pen

because it seems my pencil's been misplaced.

The use of ink does not disturb my grin;

to lose that pencil, though, makes me sad-faced.

Mechanical, but really nothing rare,

it's just a pencil that I've had some time.

To France and back, I kept it in my care;

perhaps that's why this hits me like a crime.

We're home, but I still feel I'm dangling loose:

I'm waiting for my old life to resume.

My train of thought hides truth in its caboose.

I need new rails; the past I can't exhume

My pencil represents some different strife

that makes it hard to start this brand new life.

98. The Desert of Ideas

2012-07-08T20:21:00.000-07:00

I think I've written about everything of interest. Or maybe I've run out of interesting things to write about. I sat on our back deck and stared at the sun going down and tried to think of something to write about. Not having a job? Beer? The Higgs Boson? Redo Plato's Allegory of the Cave, but using television, and do it in a sonnet? Beer?

Maybe I should write about my curly, silver locks.

Maybe I should give this whole gig up.

I'm all out of ideas for what to write;

the well is dry, or full of goo, not water.

An empty topic vista fills my sight;

I look, and there is nothing on the blotter.

I cannot write about the new red chair.

It's boring; nor is dinner worth your time.

What happened last night? Bah, you wouldn't care.

Besides, 'Attempted Coup' is hard to rhyme.

So I'll just sit and watch the sun descend

and toast the end of this long writing tour.

Or maybe one last bit of time I'll spend

and try to think of something this once more.

We're bathed in waves electric by the sun,

which resonate inside while...hey! I'm done!

Hunh. How many times can I get away with writing about not knowing what to write about?

97. How Do You Get Rid of Things?

2012-07-07T21:39:00.000-07:00

Back when I was writing in...prose, I guess-- although that sounds too lofty a term to apply to this thing-- in this blog, I wrote while we were in an airport about our stuff. How all our things had been cut down to what could fit into a giant backpack and bag full of electronics each. There were times when Megan and I would talk about all our stuff waiting for us in the US wistfully. But now that we're actually back, and all that stuff is staring at us, it's overwhelming. I no longer need all this stuff. I have too many clothes and books and dishes and blankets and toys and...boxes of things that have no use to me. I have boxes that I packed when I moved from North Carolina that have not been unpacked in ten years. There's nothing in them that I need or use, but they are full of the past and feel like a part of me.

That purple velvet is wrapped around all my little dragon figurines.
They've been that way since 2002.

And as such I find it hard to let them go.

For months in Europe, we were gallivanting

and all we owned would fit in pack and bag.

But now we've all our stuff, and it's enchanting;

we're trapped, ensorcelled by this needless swag.

We've sworn to set about a ruthless Culling

whose sieve of need/not need is woven fine.

But I, while sorting through a box, start mulling

o'er how I need it all, then get some wine.

Old shirts and VHS tapes: easy choices.

They'll go on shelves in some old Thrifty store;

Alas, too many things, in whispered voices,

remind me how I loved them once, Before.

Each thing I choose to offer for donation

pleads silently to stay, in desperation.

96. Moving Puts the Ack in Back

2012-07-07T10:54:00.002-07:00

The process of settling back in is now going slowly. We got our all our boxes moved in one day, and then got Jack the next day. Now we're just trying to find a place for everything.

The main reason that we wanted to do it all in one day was that it meant we'd get this month's storage rental money back. One of the main drawbacks of this is that it did a number on my back. Hurtey.

Our house is full of boxes, mostly brown

relocated here from our storage space.

We got it all in five trips through the town;

we wished to this month's storage fee outrace.

A Herculean task, but our plan worked:

a refund check is coming in the mail.

But with all that, my poor old back got jerked

and wrenched all up so that it makes me wail.

It hurts to straighten up from sit position

and I feel best when lying on my back.

Regardless, though, of all my supine wishin',

now's not the time for me to be all slack.

I should be out acquiring some employment

or at the very least, some friend enjoyment.

95. Kitty!

2012-07-04T15:54:00.001-07:00

Jack is back! We have our kitty again! Huge, massive thanks to Anup and Alena, who cared for him and kept him fat and happy and obviously loved.

King Under-the-Table

And now he's back home. So, so happy.

Last night the best thing in the world occurred;

our cat came back- he too spent time abroad.

I'm crazy for my cat- you might have heard,

so I'll refrain from too much depth (just nod).

That folks that kept him safe and loved were sad--

I'm sorry we can't double him: he's one'd--

but seeing him again made me so glad

I thoughts of melancholy topics shunned.

He recognized our digs: it's his old place.

And he knew us, the most important part.

I read it in his sweet expressive face;

his blinks of love made clear his kitty heart.

And when Jack curled up with us on the bed

I'd dreamed of nothing better in my head.

94. In Case I'm too Wrung Out to Write...

2012-07-02T21:43:00.000-07:00

We're back in Davis, Dearies! Megan's mom drove us down today and we spent the whole day unloading our storage space and carting all our crap back to our apartment. Good lord, so much crap. I will tell you about it in detail, but not tonight. I'm too hurty and tired. I did, however, on the way down the mountain, write a sonnet for tonight on the off chance that I didn't feel up to writing one now. So that's what you get.

One last look at that wretched hive of scum and
villainy that is Mos Eisley. I will miss you, Reno.

Is this the sonnet that you see before you?

Then things have gone, not as I'd hoped, but thought.

I'll dish the dirt if you think it won't bore you:

my guesses as to what this day hath wrought.

We got to Davis, then went on to forage

and find some food 'fore hunger made us faint;

we then went to unload our public storage.

I thought we'd do it in one trip: how quaint.

From space to dolly, elevator, truck

at least two times before the back was filled.

At least three full truck trips, or two with luck;

with sun and heat, a gallon's sweat we spilled.

To tired and sore to put a poem in place

I wrote this one this morning, just in case.

In fact, it was four truck trips, and we only ate afterward. We have so many things now.

93. The Edge of Reality

2012-07-01T21:56:00.002-07:00

Tomorrow we go back to Davis, y'all. Nigh unto a year of sometimes-focused, sometimes-aimless, occasionally-intense, and too-often-slothful journeying and abroadening is about to end. Tomorrow we move back in to our old apartment, make plans to retrieve our sweet kitty, and slide back into a semblance of our old lives. But I have some trepidation; I'm not yet sure what I'll be doing to bring home the baconnaise, and as we've gotten closer to the date that uncertainty has weighed more and more heavily upon me.

I fear the Undiscovered Country.

Anticipation: worse than actuality?

Does waiting for “it” hurt more than arrival?

Imagination looms more than reality

which just exists, leaves up to you survival.

Of course, when hamm'ring nails into your hand

there's no real pain 'til iron pierces flesh.

Imagined, though, the suff'ring's much more grand

and just gets worse 'til thought and action mesh.

Each day has brought me closer to the Change

and now I stand upon its cusp, dismayed.

Will going back to Real Life be too strange?

Uncertainty is what makes me afraid.

I know the nail will hurt less than I thought,

but 'til it lands, the wait makes me distraught.

92. How Does Warp Drive Work? A Sonneteer's Guide

2012-07-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

I've written sonnets about quantum mechanics and chemistry and...um, other things of a sciencey nature. I think I'll tackle warp drive.

Butterfly in the sky; I can fly twice as high...or more, because I'm in a space ship!

If you desired the starry void to cross

and used the rules of Star Trek's broad domain,

you'd use a method o'er which I'll not gloss;

in fact, I'll use these lines to it explain.

The warp drive takes as fuel the stars' exhaust:

deuterium, plus antimatter twin.

These substances are through the warp core tossed

where they collide in exothermal din.

The energies are focused through a crystal

and pass on to the nacelles- usually double-

where at a point from our ship's center distal

they generate a stable subspace bubble.

This bubble, with the ship inside just so,

exceeds the speeds that even light can go.

91. The parched desert of my nose

2012-06-29T20:31:00.002-07:00

Reno times, my sweets and salties (of all my names for you, I think that's my favorite)! Family, grilling, visiting restaurants we haven't been to in years (and being happy they're still the same). But there is an aspect of Reno that sneaks up on you-- fast-- when you're not paying attention.

The verdancy of this backyard is a result of my in-laws' toil, and belies the aridity it exists in.

The switch from Cackolack to Reno's ground

is more than just a change of countryside.

Of course, some differences still abound,

from hillside rough to skybowl deep and wide.

We're so much higher here and so much dryer;

the sun burns down through clearer, sharper air.

And while it feels no harder to respire,

we're of the lack of moisture quite aware.

Your sweat won't linger long upon your skin:

the air sucks it away with thirsty greed.

Your nose feels tight, the boogers dry within,

your lips will crack; that nose might start to bleed.

This doesn't mean that Reno isn't great;

your body just needs time to acclimate.

90. Sexy Fire

2012-06-28T22:03:00.000-07:00

I think I have addressed my some-might-say obsession with fire before. That's okay. The beauty of obsession is that you can just keep talking about whatever it is you obsess about.

We're in Reno now, and Megan's parents have a firepit in their backyard. I have spent many a summer evening there, watching the embers burn down and stoking them back up, long after everyone else has gone to bed.

Dang, pit, you look hot. Or could, if I set you on fire.

We saw each other again today, and it was like we'd never been apart. I wrote it a sonnet. And, because I was feeling inspired, I made sure to put some alliteration in every line. I'm quite proud of this one.

Oh firepit, you sly seducer, you,

all topped with tinder, prompting, “Play with matches.”

Or saving such, a lighter works in lieu

to tease the twigs with flame 'til something catches.

Your slinky soot-stained sides will hold the heat

and try to channel chimney-ward the smoke.

To manage massive logs and twigs petite

I'll need a strong stout stick with which to poke.

To roast a rack of ribs, or sear some s'mores?

The blaze I build works best to burn the latter.

To melt your marshmallows or coal their cores,

it's tow'ring tongues of flick'ring flames that flatter.

I forge the fire, but name me not its master;

to think such thoughts is drawing down disaster.

Megan, sadly, doesn't like it. Her aversion to marshmallows is so intense that she can't like a poem with them in it, no matter its genius.

89. Hell, thy name is Airplane

2012-06-27T21:41:00.000-07:00

We're almost done with our time in airplanes. We're in San Francisco right now, waiting for a plane to Reno. But while we were on the way here, I managed to write about how absolutely lovely it is to hurtle through the air in a giant tube crammed together with a bunch of strangers and nothing to do.

Air travel is hell, my loves. Hmm. I may have said this before. Whatever. If I have to go through it again, so do you.

Here we are. On a plane. So, so happy.

I used to think that Hell was when you move

each thing you own, forever, up a stair.

But recent travels have conspired to prove

that Hell might be long-distance trips by air.

They don't use whips, or slicey claws all razored,

nor do they pound with hammers, pinch with tongs.

Regardless, I would rather go get tasered

than languish in an airplane's boring wrongs.

You're packed in like those fish that come in cans;

Your muscles cramp and twitch and turn to jelly.

But boredom is the lynchpin of their plans,

the proof that we are in the Beast's dark Belly.

A legend says this trip will one day cease

but that's absurd. It's Hell; there's no release.

88. Greensboro Exodus

2012-06-26T20:50:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow we get on a jet plane, my Loves. And I'm not jumping out of this one. We're riding it to Reno to spend a few days with Megan's family and maybe catch up with some Reno friends, and then it's back to Davis. Back to life, back to reality.

Until then I am going to lick this platter of fun clean.

It's time to put our stuff back in our bags;

we climb aboard a plane upon the morrow.

And as we travel west, past Rockies' crags,

my thoughts will joyful be, though tinged with sorrow.

I tended ties I knew were never frayed

but still enjoyed applying knots anew,

did things that I remember “Never!” saying:

I skydived and I got my first tattoo.

It's been a magic month out here, back East,

the best way to ease back to our old life.

What comes next isn't writ, to say the least;

I'm unemployed, and fear the job-get strife.

One last stop, Reno-side, one last stint funning,

and then we hit the ground in Davis running.

87. My Megan is a Fish

2012-06-25T21:02:00.002-07:00

Our time in Greensboro's almost done, my lovelies. We head west on Wednesday. Today we had our last day out my parent's lake house. Kids running around, grownups with beer coozies (damn that's an awful word), steaks on the grill...and Megan running for the water like a little kid to an ice cream truck.

Our next-to-last day in the Cackolack;

our last day with my middle brother Brewer.

so we went to my parents' lakeside shack

where lies my naiad Megan's favorite lure.

If you get this girl near a bunch of water,

she shucks her clothes for swimsuit in a flash--

she's like some giant human-faced sea otter--

and won't get out for hours, or love, or cash.

A mermaid slipping through the silky flood,

I catch her grudgingly emerge for air.

She swims as do erythrocytes in blood,

at home in Neptune's flowing liquid lair.

To watch her dive and race sets me alight;

I'm caught within her tide, my water sprite.

86. 9.8 meters per second squared

2012-06-24T20:19:00.001-07:00

I actually did it. I jumped out of a plane. That was not going down in flames. On purpose. Well, when it came down to actually jumping out of it, I couldn't do it. I also couldn't not do it. Dad had jumped before me, and Brewer and Xen were waiting on me, so I couldn't bow out. So what did I do? I closed my eyes, went to my happy place, and let Instructor Dan- the guy I was strapped to- do the whole hurling us out of the plane thing. But what I learned was that, when faced with two untenable choices, I go turtle. Hmm. What does that say about me?

Aftermath picture. We're all shellshocked. Dad's the only one who wore a supersuit.

A fundamental truth, today I found

while at the open plane's door I perused

the miles of air between me and the ground:

I had two paths to choose from, but refused.

I didn't scramble back, nor did I leap.

To shame myself or jump, I could do neither.

And so I closed my eyes as though asleep;

Instructor Dan then threw us to the aether.

The air roared past and tasted of the ocean;

my opened eyes saw how the Earth is curved

and all below, a Map in frozen motion:

a view we tend to hold for gods reserved.

I'm glad that to my dad's wish I acceded;

that said, I do not think I will repeat it.

85. I jump out of a plane

2012-06-23T21:16:00.001-07:00

I am going to jump out of a perfectly good airplane tomorrow. Because my father tells me to.

Tomorrow when I jump out of a plane

I really hope my pants stay nice and dry.

But why would I do something so insane?

Why test the rule that humans cannot fly?

I do not even like to be too high

'less walls or windows guard me from the drop.

But acquiesce I must, with martyred sigh,

to do this with my brother and my pop.

He's reached his platinum year, come out on top

and chosen to commemorate it thus.

So how could I, the eldest of his crop,

do aught but parachute without a fuss?

I wonder: will this cure my fear of heights,

Or just increase my altitude-based frights?

84. I miss Asheville

2012-06-22T20:54:00.001-07:00

Megan and I got to spend a couple days in Asheville. I didn't get to see nearly all the people I'd wanted to, nor spend as much time with those I did see as I'd have liked. Such is the way of things, I guess.

The whole visit was like this face.

But get this: okay, you know that band Asia? You know their song "Heat of the Moment"? Just in case you don't:

Now. What I discovered is that this song's verses (not the chorus, mind you) are in iambic pentameter. Do you know what this means? It means that, in the same way that you can sing Amazing Grace to the tune of Gilligan's Island, you can sing any sonnet to the tune of Heat of the Moment.

Go ahead. Sing Amazing Grace that way for a moment. Then sing tonight's sonnet to Asia's melody.

We made our way, returned to Asheville town

wherein lie memories to which I cling.

It slipped right on, a still-fits wedding gown;

we crashed two nights with Andrew and Ms. King.

The clock turned back, yet newly wound as well,

we toasted all the things with which life's laden,

then ate with Dan and Jess in forest dell:

our hosts had rendezvous with Iron Maiden.

I got to see old roommate Shannontron,

and Blunutt: friend from storied days of yore.

So when from Asheville time came to be gone,

I wept (inside) for want of two weeks more.

'Twas Wolfe who said you can't go home again;

it seems the home he spoke of lacked a friend.

I really miss that place.

83. I used to know all the Dinosaurs

2012-06-19T19:56:00.001-07:00

I used to know all the Dinosaurs, my Dears. But in recent years I've learned that there are hundreds, thousands, that have emerged as paleontological science has advanced. It makes the five-year-old in me sad because I can't keep up with everything. Whatever; I still love them.

This guy. Right here. I love him.

When I was young, the dinosaurs I knew

encompassed all the dino hunters' lore.

Triassic to Cretaceous, the whole crew:

Dimetrodon to grim Tyrannosaur.

But I can claim these bragging rights no more;

the clade now holds a thousands kinds, all named.

And some I knew are gone, tossed out the door,

like Brontosaurus, all mixed up, now maimed.

But others stick around, remain unshamed;

Styracosaurs yet preen their spiky frill

and coelophyses prance around, untamed,

while Allosaurs Jurassic prey hunt still.

Despite their varied types' proliferation

they keep their hold on my imagination.

82. Kids, huh? That's new.

2012-06-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

We've seen many a friend from days gone by since we've been back in the Cackolack, my Fiddles and Banjos. Last night we had dinner with some folks I haven't seen since...well, high school graduation night.

Out time in Greensboro's allowed

our meeting up with friends of old.

Tonight we met with a such a crowd

and shared a meal and stories told.

In yoga, Megan found some kids to teach;

it's wild, these high-school buddies having young.

Their eyes all bright, their mouths all full of screech;

an echo of my friends on faces hung.

So interspersed with dinner conversation

these friends of yore would pause, their kids to wrangle,

to deal with some behavior complication

or offer threats and ice cream treats to dangle.

Who knows what paths our future selves will take

but awesome aunt and uncle, we'll still make.

81. Darth Vader is my Skipper

2012-06-17T20:56:00.001-07:00

It's Father's Day, O my loves. So, of course, I devote a couple words to mine. I found it difficult to do an all-encompassing summary of his awesomeness, though, so I chose to focus on something he loves instead.

Yeah, I got the Dark Lord of the Sith driving
me around. That's what this face says.

My dad likes teaching groups of other people

and picked the best career path he could take.

He also sings in that house with a steeple,

but where he wants to be most is the lake.

He's always keen to take a trip by road;

of course he likes to on his grandkids dote.

But if he told the truth unveiled by code

he'd rather spend his time aboard his boat.

Two vessels at his dock: the first's a skier

and rockets you across the rolling waves.

The pontoon boats' for sipping on a beer

away from shore, in friendly, calm conclaves.

His time upon the water makes him glad

and likewise we to have our Captain Dad.

80. Brewer's Muttonchops

2012-06-16T18:20:00.001-07:00

My brother Brewer-- who is four years my junior-- is beating me in the race to make our foreheads bigger. I am content to let him win this. But it seems as though there is a balance, that perhaps the hair that leaves his head is really just making a break for his face. And maybe there is some jealousy in that. Despite the several months I spent with no way to trim my beard, it was never as full as the one Brewer can wield in just a couple weeks. But, like a true badass, that's not how he wears it.

I wear a beard, for I don't like to shave;

it's not the best face-sweater that you've seen.

But Megan likes it and approval gave

so I don't have to keep my face shaved clean.

My middle brother, Brewer, grows a beard

as thick and lustrous as my vaunted Pop's.

But his wife thinks it tickles, finds it weird,

and so he sports amazing muttonchops.

They stream in red-brown waves across his cheeks

and suit him for Victorian society.

Amidst his many individual tweaks

they stand out as a source of notoriety.

I wouldn't choose to wear those flowing locks

but still I can't help thinking that it rocks.

79. Death and Laughter

2012-06-15T20:46:00.001-07:00

Ate dinner last night with my parents and Xen. We're staying with them for a bit but this was the first night everybody was all home and stuff.

Last night the five of us all sat at table:

'twas mom and Megan, Xen and Dad and I.

We ate, and uncorked wine of num'rous label

and talked of what to do when parents die.

One guesses that such grist would grind quite grim,

but no; this mill wrought naught but heady mirth.

We supped and laughed til deep in night's dark dim

and didn't sweat the antipode of birth.

Then after many glasses poured and drained

we stumbled to our beds in dreamy haze

with little of my parents' plans explained

for who got what beyond their dying days.

And when they finally pass into the West

it's memories like this I'll cherish best.

78. Cloth-bound disaster

2012-06-15T08:55:00.001-07:00

I did a stupid thing. An amazingly stupid thing, considering that I've been in charge of laundry for the past most-of-a-year. You'd think I wouldn't do something like put clothes that are never supposed to go in the dryer in the dryer.

But if you thought that, turns out you'd be wrong.

It seems I'm just a big old ball of dumb,

amazing that I manage to respire.

The latest proof of how my brain's gone numb?

I put my wife's drip-dry clothes in the dryer.

For months I did the laundry while in France

and thought myself an able washing-guy.

Some things like dryers: tshrits, undies, pants;

but much of Megan's stuff should hang to dry.

I can't believe I did this wide awake!

Or that they didn't cart me off in hearses:

wroth Megan looked prepared for lives to take

when she unleashed her sailor's soup of curses.

The Fallout: clothes survived, no worse for heat,

and Megan loves me still, so that is sweet.

77. Luminous Beings

2012-06-13T20:16:00.001-07:00

"Luminous beings are we; not this crude matter."

Abide.

When you feel bad, when you feel like you're not keeping up with expectations, or falling short of what you should be or be doing, remember that there's love for you. There are people who love you and don't care that you haven't yet taken over the world or ground injustice under your heel or built your giant robot yet. In fact, they're not even waiting for you to do it. They love you right now for who you are right now.

I do.

Some people think they're nothing but a failure

because they've not yet met some storied goal.

This feeling weighs them down; it acts as jailer

imprisoning them down some spiral hole.

I find my own name writ upon this roll,

and I know many more who feel this way.

“I thought by now I'd...” something, moans our soul;

we think the whole world views us with dismay.

But that's not true! Is what I'm here to say.

There's more to us than what we haven't done.

Achievements ring us 'round in bright array.

Whate'er you lack, you're here, so it's begun.

It's just the Dead whose game has run its course;

we're too Alive for stifling by remorse.

76. Putting it off til the Last Minute

2012-06-12T22:51:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble, my loves. I keep not writing and not writing each day, until it's late and I feel bad. I think I wrote a sonnet about this just a couple days ago, and now I'm doing it again. Why? Because I put off doing it until after I should have had it up already. I'm a bad person and I ask your forgiveness.

This picture doesn't have a lot to do with what I'm talking about,
except as an example of the things I'm doing instead of writing.

Good lord. This sonnet's going up quite late.

It's happening more often, now we're back.

There's fun to have and friend-talk lusts to sate;

I find it hard to keep on writing track.

I mentioned this before, and still it's true:

I need some discipline to schedule writing,

someone to crack the whip and make me do

this thing I love, enforce a time of hiding.

Perhaps a couple hours set aside

each day with none allowed to interrupt me?

Will they obey, my peeps, when I confide

my need, or will they seek to come corrupt me?

Did Shakespeare have this problem when he wrote?

If so, at least I'm in a well-crewed boat.

75. Not about a tattoo

2012-06-12T00:28:00.000-07:00

I got a tattoo today. But I'm not going to write about it. See, I was busy getting it and then having a celebratory drink or so with my awesome-like-you-read-about best-friend Robert, so I'm going to put it off til tomorrow when I have time to give it a good thought and bring to bear the full brunt of my skill. See, it's because I love you.

I'm on the left. Robert's on the right. It's hard to tell us apart, I know.

So, instead of writing about my tattoo, I said to Robert, "Give me a topic. Anything." Because I'm awesome. Jerk said, "Bar stools." So...

Today I got my very first first tattoo!

But that's not what I'll talk about tonight.

There's celebrating, drinking still to do;

I'll put off tattoo talk to do it right.

My best friend Robert: “Write about bar stools.”

so thought I of their shape, their spin, their heft,

the way you pick them up and smash them on drunk fools

and melt-down on then, girlfriend-scarred, bereft.

Beyond that, though, there's not much left to say.

They're sticks to hold and sit and drink a beer;

we sit upon them, menu give assay.

Perhaps more credit to them should adhere.

Who cares? For maybe bar stools look askance

at those who choose to sit and not to dance.