{ yesterday's tweets. }

( my milkshake brings all the tweets from the yard. )

LoudTwitter, innit?

{ Marie Howe: What the Living Do. }

What the Living Do
by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

{ leave out all the rest. }

Fuck, guys, I am totally fulfilling my role as flister you'd most like to incarcerate: if you happen to get a particularly lovey-dovey email/comment from me it's because hi, I'm a freak. Please don't wig to the tenth? Yes. And thanks.

In other news: I'm trying to reign (wtf) rein it in.

--

Nothing is happening in my life. The remaining snow is all icy and gross and I hate it; I am still at the community centre (today I fought with a huge ass printer and nearly burned my hand off: true story); I have discovered that I like my notebooks to have heft but also front covers that don't easily come off. No, but really.

--

I watched Fringe, Leverage and NCIS. The first I loved; JJAbrahms loves to headfuck, and whilst I wish the light puzzle had been an actual puzzle (i.e. something that you could solve with enough intellect as opposed to literal brain power) I still kind of loved that. Also: The Observer totally freaked me out. Again.

Leverage was half awesome (Lauren Holly! Parker!), half fucking insulting (it was the skin colouring that really bothered me and the idea that the Indians in charge of the company didn't know their shit; fuck you). So. Yeah.

NCIS. Man. ( spoilers. )

--

Oh man, so, I'm watching CSI on five, yes? And it is kind of breaking my heart! It reminds me very much of the mood last season pre-strike (with all that melancholy) and I don't know. The show itself isn't as formulaic as, say, CSI:NY, but the cases don't really interest me any more. And yet all the character bullshit has me clinging on. Oh show. WHAT TO DO.

--

Tangentially: yeah, whatever.

{ Jan Zwicky: Rain Shadow. }

Rain Shadow
by Jan Zwicky

And in the late afternoon, after so much,
to come off the high plateau.
Who doesn't secretly love the Sahara?
The desert is a promise — that clean sweep
leaning out of the future,
one table and a single chair.
To abandon the heart, too,
with the other useless machines
and make the body empty as sky.
Which is always leaving
— and the hills, drifting in with sage
year after year, bearing it somehow.
It's this we'd like to be free of, this being
always on the brink:
the spring on the porch door creaks,
someone, you're sure,
about to speak to you, you're turning.

If we knew why we had come.
If we knew why we loved it anyway.

--

Have I posted this before? I can't remember.