Poems Hatch

Melenie was here last weekend.  We made a wonderful Greek chicken together and had plenty of time to catch up.  It was relaxed and vibrant.  She’s beautiful and I like giving her presents, as, like me, she didn’t get a lot growing up. I told her a story from college: a male friend told me how wonderful his new girlfriend was.  He said she had an umbrella that matched her raincoat, she had great taste in clothes and she was always cute in her high heels and cute little beret.  He remarked I was so different, always wearing black.  Of course I wore a black sweater or tee and black jeans.  I had few clothes and black didn’t show dirt. I didn’t own a winter coat or a raincoat, let alone one that matched anything.  I knew even as he was praising his girlfriend that was a class difference. I had one pair of boots and one pair of sneakers.  No high heels.  Not that I’d wear them now.

I’m small and have epicanthic folds. That doesn’t bother my eye doctor or the physician’s assistant, but it annoys the technicians who do the field of vision tests and photo-graphing the back of your eyes to check the optic nerve. I’m so short I don’t fit into the instruments.  Both of them got rough with me as they became annoyed.  But the woman who gave me the field of vision tests really hurt me, shoving me around and into the instrument.  My neck has been hurting since.  I thought it would get better as I’ve never had a sore neck.  Instead, it kept getting more painful.   I saw my osteopath and he said my neck had been shoved out of alignment.  He worked on me.  I have to go back next week as he was unable to get it all the way back.  One side no longer hurts. He gave me exercises to help.  Now I understand the phrase ‘he’s a pain In the neck

The Super Bowl was so boring during the first half that I read Science News after about the 27th punt.  I left the game on but wasn’t glued to the screen.  Things picked up in the 4th quarter and I’d glad the Pats won. With all the manuscripts finally read, reread and ranked, I got back to my own work and wrote 3 poems this week.

Willow is in f her bold phase. She learned how to turn on a toy with a mechanical mouse but doesn’t turn it off when she’s finished.  She alternates between timidity and lively activity.  She’s scared when someone else enters the house, unless it’s Dale or Melenie.  She has made herself a condo in the storeroom wall.  None of the other cats go there.  It requires climbing on two sides of the room.  She’s a great climber, also fast.  She can get up to her condo in seconds. With Xena and Willow on the job, no mouse lasts longer than ten minutes in the house –except jumping mice who climb walls. But Xena never gives up. Willow’s chalk white with blotches of other colors and fur so soft we call her the cashmere cat. Xena’s a bullseye tabby with perfect markings, tan and black with a white chin and orange belly.  Both girls like their bellies rubbed –only by Woody and me. 

I’m not going to to Mark Morris in Boston tomorrow.  My ankle isn’t strong enough for the amount of standing around outside required.  Woody’s going with our friend Helen — a pity as adore Mark Morris and good dance. I’d set back my ankle.  It’s healing and I want to be done with Das Boot.  I’d have trouble doing garden work with it on and spring will come soon enough. With the therapeutic boot on, I can only wear sneakers I modified, not good for snow or ice.  I’m reading nonfiction now, a book on quarterbacks and one on the evolution of bones in our limbs from fish on.  I’ll come back to poetry as soon as reading more than 150 mss. wears off. I tried stories by an author getting a lot of attention but disliked them.  I can’t get into fiction where the protagonist has no agency.  I don’t believe we are that passive unless forced to be by overwhelming power. 

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