L'aura del Campo

Summer: 12 Izzat (September 19)

2005-09-19
afternoon, 84 degrees. 73 in Peterborough, Ontario.

The angels are bowling and getting ready to piss. Lucky I'm inside the library, huh?

I love thunderstorms when I can watch them! I prefer porches. A room with lots of windows is great. Snuggling in my bed, safe in the corner watching the light flash through the windows next to me and at my feet is PERFECT! Unfortunately, that last is a memory from my childhood. My sister now owns the family home and that room is the spare bedroom, I believe. Our parents' bedroom is an office. The new bedrooms are upstairs and larger. But the house is still painted red (since 1954!).

Nice day in Ontario. Have to remember to email Rita Cline and ask her why she's vacationing down in the Bahamas and what she has against the Keys .

2005-09-19
morning, 82 degrees. 86 in Marathon, FL.

As predicted, Rita is just starting her scream. I have a friend in Ontario by that name. My mothers name is spelled Reta.

Always snafus when working with bureaucracies. The university is so afraid that someone will slip in without their stamp of approval. Afterall, this is a public entity and they wouldn't want aliens from Saturn sucking up their dry dusty air! I've been here since before July of 2004 and can prove it. Just need to find an office-nazi who has the authority to tattoo me with their ink of approval.

Writing-wise I'm doing okay. Wrote 'Ophelia' [#162.391] this morning. I've received an email suggesting that I do a book of poems about hurricanes from different points-of-view. I should do one from the view of the dolphins who were 'freed' by Katrina. Wonder what they chattered about all week?

Think of it this way: we are very ego-centric. We rarely seek to understand the spiritual inside or the natural outside. We speak about ourselves, sometimes others, but rarely have a wholistic concept of it all. Earth speaks, sometimes with thunder; grass whispers; water gurgles and rocks speak vvverrry slowly. There are zillions of voices speaking around us everyday. We choose not to listen. Our loss. Humans can sometimes get lost in the screaming me-mes. It need not be so. Poets can translate these unheard voices for humanity.

OVERHEARD

"He molests my stuffed animals" and "He bought a froggy for my doggy," Nina re Frank.

SENSED YESTERDAY:

White honeysuckle bush in bloom; monarchs; empty beer tents (the party long over); the garbage of a Saturday night swept to the drains by rains.