C.B. Potts's Blog, page 51

Today

All the fetishistic celebration
commemoration
early morning fire siren ringing a full state away
won't do a lick
not a single thing
to stop it from happening again

And we haven't learned
Not a bit
What it takes to stop the hate
"they" are still "they",
Not people, real people
We don't even see the people we're busy killing in quantity
So they won't hate us anymore.

It does not seem to be working very well.
And we'll cannibalize ourselves
Cutting teachers, infrastructure, compassion
From the national agenda
R...

We are Creatures of Will Made Flesh

And I *will* be functional and happy.

I like this bit from Joseph Campbell:

You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don't know what was in the newspapers that morning... a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be.
-- Joseph Campbell

Wednesday Morning

So I'm thinking this morning about the concept of trust and states of matter: when we feel we can rely absolutely upon something, we say it is as solid as a rock. A narrative too fluid, on the other hand, will not be believed; a story must remain the same each time it's told, if it wants to be mistaken for fact.

Why is that, I wonder? Water is no great deceiver. It tells you what it will do, and it does it, and the pattern continues reliably enough. Being liquid means a lack of fixedness; the ...

Tuesday

Tuesdays are remarkably like Mondays this week.

Without the promise of football.

That is all.

Monday Morning

Hazel died on the Friday preceding Hurricane Irene's arrival. Were I the type of woman who watched for signs or took notice of omens, the death of a cat who'd proven immune to hazards far more perilous than the ordinary passage of time would have send me skittering right to the edge of full blown panic.

Luckily, I'd left panic long behind me at that point and had moved into the numbly comfortable territory of anticipatory terror. This isn't country I visit often, but, boy, I know it well. T...

The Queen Is Dead

Hazel, our calico kitty who has spent 20 years with us, died this afternoon.

There will never be another Queen.

You forget how much it hurts, when your heart breaks in pieces. You don't think you do, you don't think you can, but you do, and you can, and it really, really, really fucking sucks.

A Far More Positive Outlook

One of my favorite YA authors, Kate Messner, is inviting writers and artists to participate in a Hurricane Irene collaborative art project. You can learn about it here.

Friday Morning

I am really worried about Hurricane Irene. So many of you live directly in the storm's path. We're on the very edge here, which means heavy rains and high speed winds according to most of the models. It doesn't take a lot of water to make a lot of problem: the storm that was our big house flood and took out the local campground, sending campers and farm equipment tumbling down the river, delivered only 5 inches of rain. That was a terrifying experience. Please be careful, so careful. Little ...

Wednesday Morning, Vaguely

The day's already held complaints that I wash the dishes far too loudly. My household is resilient, though, and gamely slumbers on. The cats are fed and out, the washer's going. In just over an hour, I have a call.

My Mother was very excited by the earthquake: it shook the building she works in, many hours south of me. At the time, Harmony and I were in the mall. Supposedly we were birthday shopping for her sister; instead, she'd just purchased a neon green phone cover, thoroughly charming the...

Monday Morning

Today, we have plumbing catastrophe. It is a slow motion catastrophe; the way all home improvements are. Each problem addressed reveals three more things that need fixing.

It begins with the compiling of parts. Pipe will be needed; elbows and 90s. PVC has this smell to it; oily and sterile hatred, but that's what you use for plumbing. That's just the way it goes.

We're caught at the edge of many storms; the skies are steel gray and rain is skip-skip-skipping through. Thundery fingers clutch at...