Gah! Technology Blows...

Or sucks. One of those suggestive verbs.

This morning at 5 am while my husband was cooking his breakfast, the shiny stainless steel stove that you would think was awesome decided that its digital control panel (has a clock, temp for the oven, etc) was broken. It flashed F1 at him and then started to beep.

This annoying, very high pitched, slightly warbling unending BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

He woke me after punching all the buttons like a monkey looking for a sugar cube, after which I did the same button punching. I googled the issue on teh Internetz, (since we inheireted the stove w/ this house & don't appear to have manuals).

It turned out it needs a new panel. The noise would be justified if perhaps it was about to explode & was warning us to run for cover. But since there was no way to turn the mofo off short of going downstairs & flipping the power breaker on and off (the whole house breaker, since flipping individual ones didn't work).

That, my friends, has got to be the WORST. EVER. warning of a digital panel malfunction. At 5:30 am while your kiddos are sleeping abotu 8 feet away and you're tired and should have gotten to sleep cozily for another hour, in which you will go back & lie down grumpily & think about all the problems you have in the world instead of dozing right off.

I hate this stove. I hate all of my Frigidaire Stainless steel apparently cool appliances, because in spite of being only about 5 years old, they all have one or another issue that make them suck. Big time. I want all new stuff. Would the money fairy please hurry the F up and make me rich, please?

Playlist

I just added one of those annoying autoplay playlists to this blog. If you don't like it scroll down to the bottom of the page and turn it off. But I warn you. It's kind of awesome. I am really happy with the musical mood I am in right this sec, and what I put in there. Listen to it. The last song is my theme song.

I will be listening.....

Opposites

The opposite
of love
is not hate.
Hate is too close, too strong
and shares too much passion with love.
They are young lovers meeting secretly in the dark
sharing new kisses, new curves, new press
of body on body.

The opposite of love
is more like numbness.
A feeling of wanting to no longer feel.
Of turning a face away instead of
being eager to be seen, to see.
It is too many nights alone,
too many apologies unsaid.

It comes in flashes, like
photographs you'd rather not go over again.
A scrapbook of regret, of missed moments
of loss.

Summer's Coming

I spent today doing a few important things. I cleared out the gardens-- I kind of have two of them. One is back on the back fence and usually has sunny flowers & my cool green buddha meditation statue. The other is on the far right fence and has herbs and weeds in it, usually. Sometimes more weeds than herbs (and not that kind of weed, thank you.) The rosemary I planted last year has totally taken over one corner & it looks pretty & is fragrant so in spite of my earlier plan to let the bed go back to just grass I planted marjoram, basil & greek oregano in there today. There is a neighbor guy that's been selling herbs in his front yard during the week & I want to stop there and get some mint from him. I love mint.

Then I cleared the back bed out and scattered two cans of those "wildflower mixes" you can buy. Hot colors & cold colors all mixed together. I've tried those mixes before & had them totally not work so I hope this time it does. I want a wild bed full of wildflowers this year. The cultivated ones from the past just haven't done as much for me.

I also cleared out the someday-a-koi pond. Sean has a bad habit of dropping handfulls of mud (and rocks & other junk)in there so it's never been actually established yet as a real ecosystem. Andrew wanted to pull it up and level it-- the handymen didn't quite get the level right. And he got frustrated and quit just before naptime so it's not done yet.

But establishing the summer flower/herb beds feels really good. It feels like summer's really & truly on its way. And I really and truly need it.

Poetry

This is not about being bitter.

Before you were born, I was in love. I tasted
the salt of the ocean on my lips, saw the horizon framed
in wet eyelashes. Looked sideways at
young men sidling softly closer. Moved
shoreward and away. Coy.

Before you were born, I wrote poems. They were largely
bad ones. When you were still
wearing diapers,
I fell madly badly
deeply in love.
Fell harder out
of that love before you even started daycare.

Before you picked up a pen
I had lost. Lost entire worlds.
A heart. A soul. A family.

If anyone wonders, perhaps I could say
something about being grateful to be alive.
And that would be a truth I learned
before you were born.

Kaw April 09

Classmates: How Did You Get This Number?

I keep getting emails from classmates.com saying "Do you remember Obscure Name Here?" As though the mere name of someone I haven't kept in touch with for 20 years will send me scurrying to the website. I don't have nearly that much nostalgia for people I knew years and years ago (and in the case of these emails, apparently DIDN'T know.)

I signed up for Classmates around 10 years ago when all excited about the 10 year HS renunion. I strongarmed BFF into going, mostly because Husband's 10 year reunion had gone so well & fun. Hubby's 20 did NOT go well. We figured that was a sign and didn't even consider going to the 20. I'm sure there were people I would have liked to see, but I think, for the most part, I have kept in touch with the few people from HS I wanted to keep in touch with. I may not see them as often as I would like since I live a ridiculously long car drive from them and don't go over like I oughta (maybe soon!) but we are still in touch.

Anyway. These classmates emails are pretty much a new thing. I don't know if they just amped up their desire to find lost souls or if I accidentally went and looked at something there-- perhaps because I did recognize a name, or perhaps one day when I was looking at people on Facebook. I dunno. But it makes me feel weird to get almost daily emails from the site reminding me that I was apparently an obscure weirdo in High School, too good, even, for the party from Donnie Darko.

On a final note, since I have the labels/keywords that are listed below, perhaps if I click there, I will see a post that reminds me of why I am hearing from Classmates.... I have apparently blogged about something on a related note before. Curse this fragile thing we call shunning the masses memory!!

Note: to the person on the zoo staff

who thought it would be funny or something to feed the big giant snake a white, fluffy bunny the day after Easter......


um. Not so much. Try explaining to YOUR (almost) four year old girlchild who is very into bunnies right now what was happening.

Surely there was something less Easter-ish you could have fed the snake. I mean, I know snakes have to eat but a bunny? Really?

Thanks.

Just When I Think

...I'm out.... they pull me back in!


I'm apparently (it's not in ink yet, but probably will happen) going to teach a couple of classes this coming fall after all. I'm not surprised... I love to teach, and it's hard to imagine not doing it. And when I was offered this particular course, which is something I can do some work to changing and also not paper-grading intensive like a comp course I just couldn't resist.

I'm tired. And need a nap. And have a lot of work to be doing. And the space bar on this keyboard is messed up and I have to hit it really hard. Or backspace.

That is all.

Dreaming

I woke up today with a dream that combined two things.

I was fighting with a rude class of students who were being mean to a girl I know who wanted to read passages from some poetry that moved her. I actually was being threatened by one particularly rude student who was going to "sue me." So that was weird. And then the dream merged into something where I was being persecuted because some people in some grocery store I needed things from were saying I was a witch. And I guess, in the light of the fact that I woke trying to cast a binding spell on the one worst persecutor-- someone in the dream named Cindy whose hair I also swiped a piece of in this dream-- then perhaps I was a witch. But the spell wasn't a bad one-- just one to bind her from her cruelty. So I apparently was a good witch. In part of the dream I was also explaining Wicca to the cashiers, and beginning to win them over at least to understanding I wasn't an evil devil worshipper but just someone who saw things a little differently.

So the combo of teacher and Wicca good witch but being rather persecuted and trying to protect a young student who loves poetry very much is rather interesting. I don't know, at this moment, exactly what it means. Anyone care to psychoanalyze me?

One Hand Blogging

Ten Things I Would Miss if Civilization Ended Today:

Note that it's not the world ending. Because if that happened, I wouldn't miss anything given that I would not survive, either. (Snarky, yes. True, yes.)

1. Blue gum
2. Dandelions (these, however, would probably be fine, and possibly even thrive given the lack, therefore, of Roundup.)
3. Lattes, and the Starbuck's Mermaid
4. Target
5. Wikipedia. And/or the ability to google anything and learn something.
6. Kitsch on the internet. I mean, where else would I get a Rosie the Riveter action figure?
7. 80s music.
8. The little copyright symbol © and the little "R" symbol ®. (Ah.I just learned it means registered trademark. See point # 5 above). Also, spellchecker.
9. Do-nuts
10. Scotch Tape.

I didn't say these would be meaningful and/or deep. But I would miss being able to have this stuff. It's kind of cool stuff. And it makes me happy.

Tiny Warriors: for my son

My son plays with his
nerf pirate swords
and a toy gun bigger than
his legs that swoops and whoops
and zaps invisible aliens.

He stands in his fort and watches
out for the hordes of dangerous
---somethings.
Swings on his belly, arms extended--
shoots his laser gun into the sky.

At almost four, he still barely talks, but
this need, this
love, is built in.
Things with triggers.
Sharp edges.
Good vantage points.
Apparently.

Then he sits in his little blue
lawn chair and says he's
"a good boy."
Watches birds. Hears the music
of the universe
(so much better than I do).

Forget snips and snails.
Little boys are made of
gunpowder and muddy kisses.

201

Yesterday was my 200th post! If I were a TV show, I'd be in 200 episode fame; I'd get a big giant cake & lots of pictures after the episode of me eating said cake.

I'm not too sure I'll write a daily poem today. We'll see. It's a crazily busy weekend whenever Andrew works. And I'm not really feeling that inspired at this second. Perhaps that's what I'll write about-- the lack of inspiration. But I'll do it later.

Happy 200th post one post too late! To me! Yay Me!

Mud Dance

Weekends alone are different.
We dance more complicated single moves.
It's a troupe of three and music we alone hear.

We make the patterns up as we go along.
Break the rules often.
Make new rules, break them too.

There is so much joy in their faces when they
kick water or splash in the tub
cleaning off spring's bountiful mudliness.

My daughter squeals at an outside picnic.
My son runs faster than you can imagine
through the yard, chases invisible monsters.

I'm sure there are dramatic places I could be--
standing beneath the Eiffel tower, exploring the shops of New York--
But here, in my tiny back yard, happiness is this squish between the toes
this nap after sun, this soaking hug.

In Vain

I am not
writing a poem about you.

This is not like that Carly Simon song
and you're not hidden somewhere in the lyrics
in vague references to sweaters and jeans and
fond glances of yourself in the mirror
that only you and
I
would get.

Instead, I am writing about writing. (Again.)
About dissecting memories into
the perfect (or not so perfect) word.
A stanza. Hardly ever a rhyme-- they come out absurd. (See?)

Today I am writing about nothing,
something you were always very good
at feeling.

KAW April 3, 2009

******************************

Okay. I'm coming out of the poetry closet. I'm going to try to write a poem a day during National Poetry month. I guess there are organized efforts to do this. I did it yesterday by accident, then saw other folks talking about doing it on Facebook so thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. I'm sure many many days are going to suck, because I always suck at poetry when I force it, and almost always write about writing about poetry. But that's the part of THIS poem that I like-- the way it sneaks up on you at the end. That's my favorite way of writing a poem-- kind of like a sonnet's reversal, but not so formal and sonnet-y.

So then. We'll see if I can keep it going. Probably not. But it's worth the effort.

Momentous

A ten minute break.

A day washed clean
by early storms,
swept away with wind. Sitting
by the pond-- I watch.

One white heron
and a brown and white duck simply
stand. In the rapids,
fishing for the unlucky meal
swept into the current willy nilly
a fortuitious spot where the two ponds meet.

Yellow iris
cat
tail
last summer's scrubby wild bamboo
embroider
the bank.

Sleek. Beak slightly
open, its feathers ruffle,
crown flattens
in the wind.

Its black legs dipped in cold
spring runoff--

the wind speaks its own secrets.

The heron waits.

April 2, 2009--

***********************************************
At the Duck Pond, grateful for it.

I have this habit of writing poems on whatever is available to write. Sometimes this means a Wal Mart receipt, sometimes, especially, it means the covers (the blank white pages) of whatever book I am currently reading. This one is on the front blank white page of an old copy of Cold Mountain I'm reading. It was ten stolen moments while I waited to go pick up my son from school, and I like it. I am always grateful for those moments when something makes us turn off the radio & pay attention to the world.