Life is a little tough these days. Taking a break. I will be back with more tales of grasshoppers and compost heaps and scrabble games soon.
It’s January 31. I’m sure you all know what that means! Yes, it’s time to give Marsh some advice.
Here’s my little dilemma. I like the way this blog is going. (I know, some of you think it needs a bit more spice, excitement. To quote one reader: “what you need is more scrabble porn.”) But I also want to take advantage of some of the features of livejournal, particularly the community features. So I was thinking about (and actually made) a more scrabble-oriented version at livejournal. Maybe I will take some of my general scrabble posts here and expand upon them over there. I don’t know. I don’t really want to just have two identical blogs. Honestly, though, I don’t want to only post about scrabble over there, either.
So. Advise me!
Comments
wonderful thing, that irony. :)
and sometimes white or yellow
orange and peach I have seen before
Violets are blue
and purple I think
any other colors? Im not real sure
your friend and cowboy
thinks happy thoughts real hard
So smile sidekick :)
moohaha! Better than a Hallmark card!
Tis not the OK Corral
but my little darling
this cowboy rules the town
'whatsits and damnits' you say?
Wish them varmints well
and of course to you
a very wonderful Thanksgiving Day :)
and I blame my ancestors
I even tried Rogaine but
my curly brown hair I still miss
I do save money on shampoo
and trips to the barber
my tub clogs less
and I still got my fu manchu
Us hairless cowboys dont cry
we just wear hats
30 days til Christmas
So be good says Mr. Fly :)
Sixty feet down, as a novice diver, I realized my main AND reserve tanks were empty. I sucked desperately on the regulator. The coral reef below me was suddenly much less interesting.
After buddy-breathing with my... buddy... to the surface, guess what? It had turned choppy. And the dive platform (a rickety old fishing boat) was a couple hundred yards away. I was reluctant to drop the rented weight-belt and useless tank. That was a long swim. I drank a lot of the Caribbean.
Is one meant to prefer Michael Smith's approach: floating in stasis at the bottom of Jubal's swimming pool? Maybe when one has achieved mastery. When one no longer has any need of life-support, doctors, prayer networks, or partners. Or compost.
Glad you got some buddy-breathing here. Glad you're getting a friggin' life, however choppy it may be. Glad of many things.
Breathe.
[edit: typo]
[As for the Caribbean: I didn't swallow so much as you would notice. Seemed like a lot to me, tho.]
- - -
These comments shift tone.
One mourns the loss of poetry.
He should look within.
you'd think poetry were something integrated with the rest of life, or something....
I wonder if it's partly due to the fact that _thinking_ about poetry (analytically) utilizes such a different brainspace from that used for poetic expression itself.
That's probably also why it's deucedly difficult to write (good) poetry _about_ poetry.
Good poetry is a conduit to the heart of things. In the very best poetry, the poet - and sometimes the poem - disappears.
One might end up with something like John Cage's composition 4'33", which in some ways is reduction-ad-absurdum music _about_ music.
I like your haiku, em. :)
- Emilyiforgotmypassword