I think I'll enter that Pompeiia painting (below) in the Electra contest. Plus some kind of a poem that has never won anything. Maybe "September 11." I haven't been writing anything lately.

Jed just called and said he'll be stopping by tomorrow and Tuesday on his way to and from Demopolis, Alabama. So I need to june around a bit.

*

French toast for supper. I believe that's the first time I've ever had French toast. I'm pretty sure it's the last time.

O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. . . (P.B. Shelley)

Do Something, Even If It's Wrong.

Trying to get myself to do something useful. Self, do something! Make something or break something, just be busy. Pretend you're only 18 years old and get a job. Put the bed out in the rain so you're not tempted to crash three times a day. Think of all the things you've done in the past and can do again, if you'll just MOVE!

Think of how proud and unstressed you would feel if you had done all the things on your list last week.

Cook something.

Paint something.

Write something for the Electra award.

Take a shower.

Cut your hair.

Put on your sunhat and go walk in the yard. Or run if you still can.

Decide whether you're going to Fairhope in July.

Finish binding the leaf quilt.

Remember, you're out of coffee. Maybe that's what's wrong. So I have to move.

Ambition

"Today I took my pills, paid my bills, and cleaned my house from top to bottom."

Someday I hope to be able to say this truthfully. For the last two, I'd really be proud of "once a month" instead of "today."

In the pines, in the pines, . . .

. . . where the sun never shines,

and you shiver when the cold wind blows.

 

I asked my captain for the time of day,

he said he throwed his watch away. . .

(Bill Monroe version)

On the wests side of my back yard, there are six or eight pine trees that I wish were somewhere else. They are huge, old and scarred. If they were gone, there'd still be plenty of oaks, sweet gums, hickories, persimmons, cedars, and assorted bushes.

I love this place.

*

But I guess the hawks would nest somewhere else.

 

*

 

I'm thinking about submitting Big Baby to both Buddhapuss and Negative Capability Press, in hopes that Mary Chris and Sue would read it and just tell me what they think. I'm not as particular about fiction as about my poems, and would not at all resent suggestions on how to make it better. Or even whether I should put it in a drawer and forget about it.

I'm Thankful for Pills.

When I remember to take my pills, I feel better immediately, because I know it's going to get better instead of worse. Trouble is, when I get to feeling better, I forget to take the pills.

Oh, Frabjous Day! Calloo! Callay!!!

Mrs. Barbara's piano is now mine. I hadn't really seen it up close before, and didn't realize what I was getting--It's a Baldwin Acrosonic, just like the one I rented when I lived in Selma! I only found three keys that have to be fixed, and it's badly out of tune, but I'll get all that done eventually. Barbara wouldn't accept any pay for it, so I'm planning to take her out to lunch whenever she's free this week.

Christopher, the leader of the three-man moving team, was a beautiful giant with a scarred-up face. He said he was on disability from the armed service, but has been out of therapy for some time and now has the promise of a job with the military in Kuwait.

Uh oh!

I made corned beef pasties for lunch. I used canned biscuits, but failed to notice before I cooked them that the label said "honey butter." They were sweet like cake, so I just ate the filling out of a couple and filled up on green beans. If Gretchen Dog visits soon, she can have a feast.

The Ghost Who Walks

My arms and legs are like bamboo,

like the poles my father and I fished with
when he let me stand on the ledge of a rock
and catch my first and only fish.

In the mirror my head looks like a nest
of daddy-longlegs, or a half-blown
dandelion. My hands are transparent,
the flesh is coral, the bones are blue.

Who knew old age would transform one
from plain nonentity to an undeniably
visible phenomenon? I've never looked
so interesting before in my life.


By JRC 6/7/14

Tired of Cooking

I thought I was hungry, so I made a big bowl of fruit salad and put it in the refrigerator. For next time I think I'm hungry. This hot weather reduces my appetite.

Preparing the strawberries, I thought of Mr. Lowery's strawberry patch. I was crazy about that old man, but he never knew it, and I don't think he liked me very much. I think what I felt was envy and admiration: He had what I thought we could have with better management. Grape arbors, peach and apple orchards, strawberry and vegetable patches. A log cabin with exquisite stone work on the chimney and the steps down the hillside toward the spring, all built by himself.

This isn't his house, it's my grandma's. With PawPaw's mulberry tree.

Mettre un prix sur cette image 'tacky'!

Ramey and I went to the thrift store yesterday. This picture didn't have a price, and I had to hunt up someone to price it. Glitter on black velvet! I know it's tacky. The thrift store man asked if I had any more Elvis memorabilia. But I couldn't resist it, which may tell something about my taste in art.

Lately, sometimes when I say something, my head tries to think how to say it in French. Does that mean I'm going to France?

I also bought an oriental-looking figurine, four pretty Churchill china saucers, and a book by Isabel Allende. And a pot lid to replace the one I broke.