Ada Limón

The Real Housewife of Kentucky: Doing Nothing

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 21:14:00 +0000

Sometimes, without much warning, there comes a pause in the action. At first, when it came I was suspicious. It was heavy and empty and silent. I took myself for a walk. Then, when I came home I tried to create things. But I couldn't. Instead, I cleaned my closet.

A few days later, I had cleaned more things. And scrubbed the floors. And the bathroom. And organized. I kept saying, "Clutter-Free 2012!" I put things in baskets and recycled boxes.

Also, I started to cook more and more new things. One of my many (spoiled) Christmas presents was a pressure cooker. So, I made Coq Au Vin and all sorts of new inspired dishes. I baked. There were things in the crockpot, things in the kitchen aid, things in the slow cooker.

I started jogging a little. I liked the way it made my brain feel. I like the way it makes my brain feel. I started jogging/hiking where Daniel Boone and his family used to live. When the sun is out, it looks likes this. This was today.

I started a new project, it's currently called, "The Woods." I like it. It moves a long and has a nice rhythm to it. And magic things happen. It's mostly about the woods.

I wrote a new poem. It's about lightning and love.

I wrote my friend to say, "I haven't been working on the novel. It's in forced purgatory. I'm waiting. I'm waiting for more comments and then I will dig in and make some significant changes. In the meantime, I cook, and workout, and clean." She called me, "The Real Housewife of Kentucky."

I twittered that I had done nothing all day. Though in truth I had hiked, and cleaned, and read many many poems, and made a good dinner. And a stranger twittered back this:

It takes a lot of time being a genius, you have to sit around so much, doing nothing.
--Gertrude Stein

I'm not a genius. But I'm a genius at doing nothing.

*
After, I finished reading Poetry magazine, I made a sign out of the subscription card, we call them "blow-ins" in the biz, and put it on my desk. Next to a jar of beach glass with a bird on top.

I took some time to write to my friends. Good long letters when they were needed. To one, I wrote something like this, "I still get the blues a lot. But I have a lot more tools to deal with it now. I've read a lot of books about self-improvement. You can sum them all up in one word: BREATHE (or CHILL)." (That's true.)

We made a beer with our friends. I want to name it something awesome.

It's been cold recently. And gray. But not too bad. And not too gray. (I just learned how to spell GRAY. I say, "With an 'A' for AMERICA.)

One of those books I was talking about earlier says that we have to be careful about roles. How sometimes you get caught up in being something you're supposed to be: mother, leader, artist. And I was in the bathtub (that was very clean) and I realized that I was working on trying to BE a writer and an artist, when, really sometimes, I just need some time to breathe. You probably do, too.

The dog is snoring. I should go clean something. And make a healthy turkey meatloaf. And watch a movie. And do nothing.

Friday the 13th with 3rd Graders!

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Today, I spoke to a group of 78 third graders at Maxwell Elementary School in Lexington, KY. I was a bit nervous as it has been years since I've been in front of a classroom. Not since the days of working with the wonderful Community Word Project and teaching in the Bronx, had I spent so much time with an audience of young ones. And we had a blast. My dear friend who invited me wanted me to read some of my own work, but because much of my work is geared towards adults, I decided to write a poem specifically for these students. It's a children's poem exploring what it's like to become a poet. It's been a long time since I wrote anything for children, but I found great joy in the process. Here it is below. Thank you to the 3rd Graders of Maxwell and their wonderful teachers for an inspirational day of words and warm place to escape the snow.

The Invitation

For Maxwell 3^rd Graders

When I was a big-mouthed kid

with so much of my life left to go,

there were so many things I wanted

to feel, to see, to know.

I wondered about the birds I saw

crisscrossing the endless sky.

I wondered how it would feel someday

to open my feather-less self and fly.

I thought about the bully bee

with its painful, throbbing sting.

I wondered if I could ever make

such a small and powerful thing.

I thought about the darkness

and the giant moon in the trees,

how sweet that light would feel

glistening on my own leaves.

I wanted to be incredible,

create rhythm (and sometimes rhymes).

I wondered what my dreams

would look like, broken into lines.

What I wanted was to say something,

but I didn’t know where to start,

so I walked out in to an empty field

and tried to quiet my too-loud heart.

And when I listened long enough,

there came a rumbling of distant words.

They were coming out of nowhere,

like a booming flock of wayward birds.

Oh how I was thunderstruck!

Oh how I welcomed the unknown!

I knew then, that all I wanted

was to make my life a poem.

Beginning Againing

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 03:14:00 +0000

After the rush and buzz of the holidays (an eleven day road trip with puppy in tow), I came back to Kentucky with a new sense of my weird self. Not the sense of self that says, “I’ve got this figured out,” but rather the one that says, “Oh, right, I have no idea what I’m doing.” I learned a lot about how I want to live my life, what I want out of it, who I want to spend it with, what my next journeys will entail, and so forth. In the fall of 2010, I quit my job, and despite having fallen in love with someone, moved home to the Valley of the Moon where I tried desperately to write a novel. Now, it’s 2012. I live in Kentucky with my man. I have finished the fifth draft of my first of a novel. We have a dog, and we go for walks, and write, and drink bourbon, and wine, and tea. I freelance copywrite from my home office, which keeps me in touch with New York and the advertising world, and all in all, I am, (say it, or as Elizabeth Bishop said…(Write it!), happy.

And yet still there are days when I am not. When I am full of fear and self-loathing. Full of envy, greed, or hurt. The days where the beast inside of you rails against your softer water-sack on the soul and screams that you are doing it all wrong, making a mess of things, carpooling one too many bad ideas to and from the office of regrets. It’s fascinating to me. Still, as I enter 2012 with a still-not-done-probably-80% there-book-I-never-thought-I-would-write, and a life I never thought I would have, despite my occasional blues and mean streaks, I am pressing onward with some absurd belief that everything’s going to be alright. In the meantime, these are my resolutions that I will make here to keep me sane and grounded. (Some of these, I already do, and this simply serves as a way of recommitting to them.)

Walk in the “great outdoors,” every day, even in the snow, (even with the blues).
Meditate every day for at least 10 minutes.
Write every day. No matter what it is. And emails (unless they are long love letters, or epic personal stories, or writings on the craft) don’t count.
Practice yoga, Pilates (it still bugs me that I have to capitalize that), or at the very least, some stretching every day. (I sit at my desk and write all, people who do that also need to work out a lot.)
Connect with my friends more (call or video chat more). Make phone dates and stick to them. These people are my lifelines. They have always been my lifelines. Don’t forget it.
See my family more often. Travel, video chat, call, write, send gifts, to the people that made me and the people that helped me be a better person all along the way.
Be as honest with myself as possible, while still dreaming extraordinarily big. (Fly? I can do that. Watch me.)
Stop beating myself up so terribly when I make a mistake. (I hate failure, I keep forgetting that it makes me better. I hate you when you tell me I fail. But trust me, I hate myself more. This cycle must end.)
Save more money. (I don’t need everything I see. Except for that, right there, just this once.)
Use my time more wisely. (TV is not wise. Unless it is. Then it’s awesome.)
Answer the phone when it rings, unless I am already with someone. (I’m never going to do this, but I’m putting it here to make my phone feel better.)
Read more. (This includes the lovely stack of New Yorkers that have piled up like intellectual bills in our living room.)
Listen more closely to people, hear what they need. Be a better friend because I’ve listened, not because I’ve said something.
Tell him all the time how happy he makes me. Make sure he knows how impossible this good love can seem sometimes, and how grateful I am that he is my incomparable partner in crime.
Play guitar. Learn some new songs.
Write a new story (whatever this means).
Finish book of poems number four. (It’s on its way.)
Explore, appreciate, and connect to the town where I am living like I’m a happy tourist. Whatever town that is.
See more live music. Nothing compares to the elation of my ears.
Practice gratitude, and acceptance, and joy. (Ah, you know…easy.)
Take care of myself like I would a friend: Eat well, drink well, comfort and calm myself.
Teach our dog some new tricks. And by new, I mean, some. (I know Mr. Cesar Millan. It’s me, not the dog.)
Give more. Volunteer more. Do things for others.
Never underestimate the power of the art we do.
Begin again. And again. And again.

The Constant Come Back

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 17:43:00 +0000

After a quick Southern California trip to see my grandparents, we arrived safely (puppy and all) in the home valley. It's colder than I thought it would be, but just as pretty as always. We're looking after friend's dogs in a house perched on top of a mountain while finishing up work. As the copy work dwindles for the holiday and the novel work begins again, I'm watching a German Shepherd, a Catahoula Cur, and a much-fiestier-than-she-looks pug try and play nice by sharing bones and patrolling the grounds together. The fine and difficult art of sharing time and space with other animals. Oh the complexities of building a new society. Oh the homes we make out of rocks and dust.

Everyone is going home. Or so it seems on the interwebs. I like that. A returning. A coming back to each other. A brief pause in the middle of all our private and political disasters. I always think of one of my favorite Robert Hass poems, "Faint Music," where the ending opens up so beautifully. "I had the idea that the world's so full of pain/it must sometimes make a kind of singing./ And that the sequence helps, as much as the order./ First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing." Now, we get to sing.

I'm looking for Thanksgiving poems to share at the table on Thursday. My non-believer way of saying thank you, my little atheist prayers.

(Some people have home teams, I have home trees. This is my most cherished tree-teacher. "Good things come in trees." I know the California state tree is the redwood, but sometimes I think it should be the oak.)

(From the top of the Corridor Ridge trail where I came with my labrador when I was little, we walked in the late afternoon. This time, with my new favorite dog by my side.)

(Who says we don't have seasons in California? This is what we call the Sonoma "color.")

I think of the coming back we do to our roots and of Kay Ryan's "A Certain Kind of Eden," with the lines: "Even the one vine that tendrils out alone/ in time turns on its own impulse,/twisting back down its upward course/ a strong and then a stronger rope,/ the greenest saddest strongest/ kind of hope."

What needy things we are. What greedy things. How generous of the earth to put up with our endless coming home, our own weird gravity of belonging somehow, somewhere, to some part of the forgiving land, we unwittingly try and call our own.

The Dead & the Lucky

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 01:14:00 +0000

In the slumping afternoon light, I went to the basement to dig up all the photos of my dead. I wanted a picture of my Grandpa Frank, my Grandma Mary, Uncle Chuck, Jess, Denver, and of course, my beloved stepmom, Cynthia who died 2 years ago in February.

The lights in the basement are touch and go. That is, they mostly don’t work. But when I went down to look for photos, all the lights came on. I looked into the space around me and said, “Thank you.”

All the photos! I was lost in love with them. So much so, that it no longer became about celebrating the dead, but also the past, all the wonderful, and painful things that make up a lovely and ridiculous life. Soon, I had photos spread out all over the washing machine and was pouring through letters that I saved. Crying. Laughing. Making absurd human sounds that must have disturbed (or delighted) the dusty corners.

I have no real point, only to say, it was all so pleasant; spending the day with my dead and my past. I kept thinking of Cynthia and missing the way she laughed when we spent complicated evenings in the kitchen making complicated things. I miss her the hardest. All the time. I miss the fact that she doesn’t know the man I love, or how drastically my life has changed in the two years she's been gone, or how she gave me much of the courage to change it. It was the best afternoon with the dead, ever. Like spending the afternoon in soft pants and homemade butter cream.

Earlier, my “Uncle Oil” or Earl LeClair, one of my stepdad’s best friends (and a wonderful poet who inspired me from my first minor inclinations toward writing) showed up with his friend Alice, and unexpectedly and took me to lunch. It was just what I needed, his big wicked grin in bluegrass.

So, it seems this El Dia de Los Muertos was a lucky one. All lights on and a glow. Come back any time, my gone ones. You are very welcome here.

Leaves & the Left Coast

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 01:49:00 +0000

So many things have opened up and unfolded as the mumming light of Fall fills the days and I'm all fake fireplaces and foliage. October has proven to be kind to the writing and the wow and the now and the bourbon-y how.

I read with some awesome poets on October 5th for the World Series of Poetry in San Francisco. It was a weird and unconventional and I fell in love with their work all over again.

Then, it was off to my home town, Sonoma where crush was in full swing and the grapes were heavy and loaded with good things you have to wait and wait and wait for.

In the weeks of moving, of unpacking, of cleaning, of writing copy, and writing art, somehow I was offered an escape to the Anderson Valley with my older brother and sister-in-law. Twelve wineries in 2 days. And this is how we spent our lunch break at Navarro Vineyards.

I chalked the whole wonderful adventure up to research and tried to put away as much Pinot Noir as possible. Now, I have quite a bit in the bluegrass kitchen. Just sitting there. In the wine rack. Silently screaming my name. They'll have to wait until we have visitors and some nice things accomplished.

Then, the day of my flight out to Lexington, I was invited to a read at the Yerba Buena Gardens in San Francisco as part of Litquake and hosted by the talented powerhouse Robin Ekiss. The sun came out and we all oohed and ahhed together. Like poets should do. Here's a video of me reading poems and talking about things.

Now we're home in the bluegrass house where the whole of my Brooklyn apartment now resides. The old green kitchen table that the girls used to gather around is now my desk where I write. The rocking chair is in the dining room. Dolly Parton on the cover of Playboy is in the bathroom. The Ada is in Kentucky.

Kansas City is Oh So Pretty

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 13:38:00 +0000

I just returned from Kansas City where I was lucky enough to read in the Park University's Ethnic Voices Poetry Series at the Public Library. I also was lucky enough to read at UCMO's Pleiades Series, introduced by my host, poet and editor, Wayne Miller. There were two radio appearances as well. (Radio makes me terrified, I stumble and plummet and um, and um, and um.) All of it was a great joy. There were good crowds full of interesting people with lots of questions about the poet's life, the novel, the New York life, the world, the how, and the now.

Wayne, his wonderful wife Jeanne, and I all had the most amazing barbecue at Oklahoma Joe's. Hands down the best barbecue I've ever had. Anthony Bourdain agrees as he's listed it as one of his "13 places to eat before you die." And now I know how to plan my other poetry readings. Checking off the other 12 places on the list.

After an interview with the great host Jabulani Leffall, on Central Standard on KCUR, I read at the Library for the Park University Ethnic Voices Poetry Series. Virginia Brackett was a wonderful host and the evening ended with another great dinner at Kansas City's West Side Local. Then, in the morning it was off to do a radio interview with New Letters on the Air host Angela Elam. They recorded at UKC, around a small table with a Mexican blanket. I told her, the humble setting made me feel quite at home. Then, I accidentally told her all my secrets. We shall see when the interview appears here soon.

Then, off to UCMO in Warrensburg, which (no doubt you know this) is FAMOUS for the place where the phrase "a dog is a man's best friend" was coined. This is true. Not only is a dog, in fact, a man's best friend, but I saw the statue of the original dog in the center of town. So it all really happened. Statues are truth. Then, I read for a great undergraduate crowd of young writing students. I later said to Wayne, "I think the trick to reading for a busy and distractible undergraduate audience must be to read all your poems about sex." Which is also true. A dog is a man's best friend, but sex is an undergraduate writer's best friend.

On the way home, I got the chance to read Wayne's new book. Beautiful book. The City, Our City. It's harsh and stunning, with lines like, "What it was that filled me,/filled me entirely./The only space left/was inside my fists." From his remarkable poem, "Street Fight." Also, I had the pleasure of buying Alex Battles's official album, Goodbye Almira and listening to it on the flight back home. It's an amazing album from the Country Music world of Brooklyn, NY that he helped to establish. "She's an easy girl, easier than the lid on a pickle jar/easier than using your knees to drive a car/easier than leaving her alone." Aw yeah.

So thanks, Kansas City, for the meats and the meetings. I enjoyed you. I shall return. Now, a little writing time before the next trip takes me to Pennsylvania, NYC, and SF for two big readings. Whoa, take it easy world. Keep your pants on. Fall is just getting started.

The Dog Days of Summer: Puppies & Pages

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 17:05:00 +0000

"I don't ask myself what I'm looking for. I didn't come for answers to a place like this"

--Philip Levine

Two momentous things have happened since I last came here to talk: 1. I finished a rough draft of my first novel 2. We got a puppy.

Now, the momentous things that happen seem a little less momentous and a little more in the moment. I take care of this little beast. And, as I do I'm starting the giant rewrite of the book. It's like nothing I've ever done before. The fiction journey is entirely different than the poetry journey. It's so much more about endurance and strength as opposed to hot bursts of wild exhilaration. Oh there is a great deal of exhilaration with the novel work too, but it's prolonged and measured and meaty. A life in chapters instead of lines. The weeeeeeee of writing to the end of the page. The weeeeee of life in the long form.

I never liked pugs. Or rather, I never thought I'd have one. I liked big dogs with big personalties. But we travel a lot. And Lucas loves them. So, we brought home this little girl. That same week, my wonderful friend, Nadia sent me this awesome shirt. (It says Pugs Not Drugs. It does not say Jugs Not Drugs, though I just realized it could possibly look that way.) Now, I've gone from a New York City girl with no pets and a lot of high heels, to this strange and laughing barefoot person. Ah well, I'll embrace the change. I'll love that weird funny animal of life.

Twilight in the Bluegrass with Lily Bean Kudzu reaching out into the abyss of the now. In my best friend, Trish Harnetiaux's play, Straight On Till Morning, she has a cat named, "The Now." I always loved that, "Meow, The Now!" I suppose this pup is saying, "Wow, The Now."

Lucas in the wild flowers with the wild pug. My family has grown. We've adopted a dog baby and a novel baby. I hope I can do right by both of them. Joy sure comes with a lot of pressure to keep it.

In other news, Phil Levine, my favorite teacher, and one of my favorite poets, was just named the new Poet Laureate of the United States (The President of Poetry). He taught me a lot of what I know. And I think he's wonderful. With all the despair in the news, it's nice to get a good word from poetry.

Here's one of my favorite poems of his:

Gospel
Philip Levine

The new grass rising in the hills,
the cows loitering in the morning chill,
a dozen or more old browns hidden
in the shadows of the cottonwoods
beside the streambed. I go higher
to where the road gives up and there's
only a faint path strewn with lupine
between the mountain oaks. I don't
ask myself what I'm looking for.
I didn't come for answers
to a place like this, I came to walk
on the earth, still cold, still silent.
Still ungiving, I've said to myself,
although it greets me with last year's
dead thistles and this year's
hard spines, early blooming
wild onions, the curling remains
of spider's cloth. What did I bring
to the dance? In my back pocket
a crushed letter from a woman
I've never met bearing bad news
I can do nothing about. So I wander
these woods half sightless while
a west wind picks up in the trees
clustered above. The pines make
a music like no other, rising and
falling like a distant surf at night
that calms the darkness before
first light. "Soughing" we call it, from
Old English, no less. How weightless
words are when nothing will do.

Cherries & the Summer of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 14:47:00 +0000

All the wheels are wheeling and the direction they go nobody knows. I've been putting my shoulder to the wheel. The bluegrass home has proven to be quite productive as the weather stays wet and warm outside and inside the words keep coming. I've stopped agonizing over leaving Sonoma Valley for the time being. I love it there, and it will be there when I return. For now, it is this lovely view and the view of the world I am creating in my brain.

Hiking by the big muddy Kentucky River, all the trees were leaning hard into the sky. Sharks in the Rivers went into its second printing and new readings were booked for the fall (click on the Readings link above). Poems have been coming far and few as most things have become about the novel. I'm starting to see how this is done. Slowly.

What it's like to build a home together. What it's like to work from home together. All this learning and the wonderful man who keeps me laughing through it all. Grilling in the backyard, so many vegetables in the garden, so many bugs in the bluegrass blue sky. I'm learning to live in the flux. Flux it.

All this joy I keep eating in the form of cherries. Lips red and raw from all this joy. New poems coming out in journals, and a new interview over here. Friend and fellow vagabond, Alex Battles has released his fabulous songs here, buy them, support him. Sharon Salzberg, the woman who has undoubtably helped me calm my brain and become a less frantic depressed soul has released a new book (audio too!) and I recommend it highly. Also, Don't Kill the Birthday Girl a memoir from dear friend Sandra Beasley has just come out this week. As we like to say in my family. "Take a look, check it out!"In the meantime, all these real cherries to eat in the real summer of love.

Behold the Rising Tide

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 14:40:00 +0000

Some turning point, whether it was the June 15th big moon event, or just some switch of summer that turned the faucet to hot and hell yeah, everything's been a little better lately, a little more golden. The work on the novel is moving along, and so as a reward, I took myself and my ma to the beach. I found a note I wrote to myself in my novel notebook that said, "Stay brave & open." Ok.

This guy snuck up on us. I defeated him and then put him in my pocket.

Limantour Beach (by Point Reyes Station) was 74 degrees and poetry-worthy weather.

I like grass.

All the real green grass of the real world was real pretty.

The day made me think of Robert Hass, one of my favorite poets, and his poem, "Interrupted Meditation" that ends this way.

"Everyone their own devastation. Each on its own scale.

I don't know what the key opens. I know we die,

and don’t know what is at the end. We don’t behave well.

And there are monsters out there, and millions of others

to carry out their orders. We live half our lives

in fantasy, and words. This morning I am pretending

to be walking down the mountain in the heat.

A vault of blue sky, traildust, the sweet medicinal

scent of mountain grasses, and at trailside—

I'm a little ashamed that I want to end this poem

singing, but I want to end this poem singing—the wooly

closed-down buds of the sunflower to which, in English,

someone gave the name, sometime, of pearly everlasting."

Golden State

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 15:02:00 +0000

I returned home from Southern California where we moved my grandparents into a new apartment. It was boxes and lifting and sorting and pictures and stories and stories and stories. Stiff upper lips and long lungful sighs. After a nine hour drive with my Ma to my favorite county, I tried to return to my writing desk (a kitchen table that looks out on the oaks, with one particular finch that looks in on me). But, the brain kept swirling. And so I went for a walk in the valley. Made some big wishes for some good things. I made some wishes for you, too.
The fish looked thick and fat in Lake Sutton. And the summer boys and girls were out with their bright striped towels, fishing poles, dirt bikes, and early summer crushes on one another. They nodded sweetly as I went passed and I noticed I was no longer one of them.
The rattlesnake grass is sneaky on the hillside and you can hear its yellow tremble in the wind. There are so many things to love in this world. Oh, how to balance this living and dying we do. How to be quiet long enough to hear yourself breathe, and how to foster that long loud echo inside of you that keeps returning and returning the world.

It's an Animal Kingdom

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Wed, 11 May 2011 15:16:00 +0000

Well, we went swiftly through April, the way months move and toss you around and then throw you out into the next. And May came so quickly. Cinco de Mayo, our anniversary, Derby Day, my father's birthday, and Mother's Day all came in a single five-day stretch. Now, just as we return to the business of writing, the good staring out the window kind of gig, we're off to New York for more poetry readings. In the meantime, it's Spring in Kentucky and we've been to all the races a girl could dream of. Birds are going nuts outside and the inner chirper is starting to perk up and peek out.

The wild flowers went wild in the wild.

The greens were growing greener and getting under my skin.

Then the Derby came, and we crossed our fingers until they were sore.

And had mint juleps and wore plaid.

The next morning, after the roar of the crowd had stilled, we visited the winning horses on the backstretch.

The winning horse, Animal Kingdom. Won at 20-1.

We also visited, the show horse, Mucho Macho Man (female trainer, gorgeous horse).

Driving home from the pool with groceries in the car I said to Lucas, "You know what I just realized? We live in Kentucky."

Jen's Last One, Two Days Late. NAPOWRIMO Fail.

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Tue, 03 May 2011 02:20:00 +0000

Buhbye

Jen's for #29

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Mon, 02 May 2011 02:39:00 +0000

Toodles!

jason for day 30!! FINISH LINE!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 23:54:00 +0000

(gone)

jason for day 29

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 23:50:00 +0000

jason for day 28

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 23:45:00 +0000

au revoir

jason for day 27

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 23:32:00 +0000

Ada's for April 28:

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 17:50:00 +0000

(poem was here)

Ada's for April 27:

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Sun, 01 May 2011 14:24:00 +0000

(poem was here)

Ada's for April 26:

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 11:15:00 +0000

(poem was here)

Ada's for April 25:

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 12:06:00 +0000

(poem was here)

Jen's for the 28th

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 04:29:00 +0000

TTFN

Jason for day 26

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 03:25:00 +0000

Ada's for April 24:

noreply@blogger.com (Limonada) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 03:20:00 +0000

(poem was here)