If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



SC



_____________________________






Sunday, April 29, 2012

Hail... and lots of it


Last Thursday, Elsewhere was hailed upon... 


in a Biblical sense.


Fortunately, everything on the farm can be cleaned up with a broom and rake...
others didn't fair so well.

My poor little flowers...  


...maybe next year.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

The Joys of Eating


We chew. But we don’t eat. Our food is eaten for us. I did not know this. I mean… I did… but not exactly.

          I’ve always had this picture of my food: chewed and travelling down a perfectly straight esophagus, dropping into that wine bag of acid, where it is liquefied, and from there, dispersed to, well… wherever. Some scientist on N.P.R. was kind enough to explain differently, elaborate.

          Now, I know we have bacteria in our stomachs, flora. What I didn’t picture was that these little guys, these bacteria, have mouths and butts. I always pictured them looking like, well, yogurt. Nor did I envision that the food we chew is actually eaten by these bacteria, not just magically dissolved. Eaten, digested and pooped.

          As if that wasn't gross enough, the scientist went on to explain that after the first bacteria's meal and subsiquant defication, along comes another, smaller bacterium. This smaller bacteria eats the first bacteria's poop, digests it and poops it out too. Then another. And another. And so on—I think the scientist said, eight or ten times—until the food we put into our mouths is broken down, 'digested', enough for us to use.
          Life is so crazy-beautiful.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Mag 111 'Note to New Wife'


image: Parke Harrison




















In those salad days,
my younger brother and I,
bore home every morass in our All-Star soles,
honeycombed for that ‘surer’ grip—
Lewis and Clark—
only to find ourselves thwarted
on the threshold of a semi-flown nest,
pockets asquirm with pond-side game,
paralyzed by threat of tannings
and other such cruelties
should we tread,
sodden
onto mother’s freshly mopped floors.

Be wary, my dear
as you take my hand,
I haven’t changed a lick.