by Angeliska on August 9, 2008
Dog-days, my friends- where the storms tease us,
unfurling bruised capes behind them as they
hurry off to other counties- snubbing our parched
and pathetic orchards. Drought didn’t mean nothing
to me before I grew what I ate. We need several days
of good soaking, and soon! If you’ve got rain,
send some my way why don’t you?
I learned this word from Mlle. Fulguritus today:
Petrichor: the smell of rain on dry ground after a long dry spell.
Made by the oils from vegetation.
Also, let us not forget the venerable octothorpe, in honor of the day.
Snock and I on a winter’s day.
I received a letter from Michael Hurley yesterday
that made my heart sing and dance.
He is one of my most favorite people on the planet.
If you’ve never heard his songs before,
I suggest you do- because he is the greatest
songwriter alive, as far as I’m concerned.
He offered these very wise words regarding the season:
Riding my bike and swimming are all I’ve been doing,
until last week- I burnt my leg on the motorcycle tailpipe.
It seemed fine at first, so I didn’t worry about it too much-
but then.. Oh it got bad. I actually went to the doctor,
and she fixed me up- now it’s looking much better.
I learned a few things about what to do for bad burns.
Check out my hairy leg, and hilarious tan lines on my feet.
Today is the day my mama died.
I lay cradled in the hammock all afternoon,
crumpled with cramps- reading (The Golden Apples,
by Eudora Welty- which is incredible)
and thinking of her. I’ve been reading her letters.
Getting a sense of her voice,
her hopes and fears. Lately I can’t seem
to light any candles, or do any work to bring
the good on friends in need, or to honor
all my dead. Only the most abstracted
gestures surface. The connection,
the focus is hazed- but my dreams
are more vivid. Everything else seems
scattered. I get exhausted with anniversaries
of death- more and more every year.
But she’s the first- the matrix,
the door where I came through
doesn’t exist anymore.