A singular day

At some point in the night all three cats are on my bed. 

Some web thing said they were gathering my negative energy.
Poor bastards!
And thanks.



No surprise that the never-clearly understood nuances of using blogger are eluding me tonight. I've hit upon the right order of pill-taking to make the overlap useful. Anyone who's ever been prescribed a steroid pack, six day course of prednisone will attest that they usually kick in by the middle of the first day. For me, it's day three.


A deep change of input also lifted this day out of the tedium of convalecsing.

This felt like a terrible waste of energy, but after three starts, I finally got the letters right. Twice I scrawled out ftd, which has a nice flow, letter-form wise. 

Third time's a charm, but I kept my distance from the intention. I'm gonna need some signage for my 4/5 picnic. If you're in the neighborhood, please join me. I'm going to get a picnic table at a park close to home. About 1230. I'll bring snacks to share. Lunch for me. Bring my stitching, my music, some 50501 signs. My big mouth. Join me. I'm working on a stand-up routine that would probably put me in facebook jail. but fuck 'em. Email me for details. 

He should be denied memory of any pleasure, past, present, or future.

I spent some time in the studio. The morning light is irresistible. Fierce. The big tree hasn't leafed out yet and I get the full blast from the east from 8 to ten or eleven. It makes it hard to focus on any one thing. All is illuminated. There's the tower of UFO and the Basket of Almosts. The desk piled with tax papers and three books bristling with sticky tabs of editing.

There are still pages of handwritten notions to commit to the computer. Tomorrow I'll dictate a few. Can't make a whole without the parts.

Midmorning, I spent two hours actively watching and listening to A Complete Unknown. Quite the trip getting sucked back to high school and the certain knowledge that one had to take a stand. Viet Nam, Civil Rights, clashes of culture. I weaned off the Beatles to the Stones--from sweet to nasty. But threaded through it all, Bobby was my first poet. Even before Paul Simon. 

I shied away from folk music because my parents, a lot of parents, co-opted it rather blindly. Puff the Magic Dragon still makes me gag. '

Dylan's music was my secret. Highway 61, Blonde on Blonde, and Nashville Skyline--If it wasn't for Planned Parenthood, "Lay Lady Lay" would have started more surprise lives than Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra together. 

 I would hear a song on the radio. Take notes. Go to the record store, read all the lyrics and NOT buy the record. I needed to have his music foisted on me by one radio station or another so I would pay attention. Anyway, the movie is well worth your time if it was your time, or you're curious about how some of the world once was.

Meanwhile, people were getting real work done. I was happy to know that this mower made it through another hard year of work and a winter of terrible neglect.

I'm looking to reimagine this in cloth to work on at my picnic. I have the red and white part already. I'll have to cook up a dyfest for the right blue. a few of them. on light linen. The text must be true, but that lettering needs help. 

Finishing off the day with a good reread. It's been too long since I've cracked any kind of craft/tool book.  Wtf do I think I am?

Have a great weekend.