Thursday, September 4, 2014

Been eating SuperAmerica sandwiches

I've been in sort of a daze. Can't really cook or think what to buy. Been buying thin sort of damp SuperAmerica sandwiches for lunch and 24 ounce coffees for the drive in to work. I don't even like coffee. Having a lot of trouble just putting one foot in front of the other, so need coffee. Tonight I thought I would make a little effort and see if the oven works. Made a sort of quiche. A can of Rotel tomatoes with chilis. Half of a packet of grated cheese of some sort. Eggs. A bag of thawed broccoli. The eggs and cheese were kind of old. Actually, they were very old. Baked at 350 for one hour. I didn't measure anything, so we'll see how this works out. 

Monday, September 1, 2014


Promised myself I'd unpack the three totes in the dining area. Not much of a goal for a three day weekend. I thought the silverware was in one of them, since they are the last totes marked kitchen. But, no, it wasn't there. I have no idea where it is. I've been making do with a fork and a plastic spoon for the last month since I moved. I guess it must be in one of the untouched totes in the garage or the spare room, or I gave it to Goodwill by mistake. More likely one of the totes. I can't even look at the stacks of totes in the garage and spare room. I have no idea how I will get through them, or, even, what's in them. I have to get through the ones in the garage soon, in case there are things that shouldn't be out there during the winter.  Overwhelming.

The fog in my head continues. It's hard to think. I feel like one of those reenactment actors in a documentary about reaching the Pole. Pick a Pole. I'm muffled up to the eyes, numb, pulling a sledge behind me. I wonder if I've been poisoned by the lead seals on my canned food. I somehow made it to this long weekend. I somehow have to make it to work tomorrow and all week. 

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Good walk in the park

The dog and I walked in the Oakdale Nature Preserve early this morning. It's the trail and park that's 4 tenths of a mile from my house (or, 3 super long suburban blocks). On the way out, I stopped to watch a bird feeder, a sturdy house with platform, because a creamy tan bird with a very orange beak caught my eye. I don't know that bird species, but I saw and recognized goldfinches, finches, a male and a female cardinal, chickadees, and several hummingbirds. The hummingbirds weren't using the platform bird feeder. However, they flew past it on their way to their own feeder and then flew back to share the same section of trees with the other birds. I enjoyed watching them and the dog stood quietly while I did so not because he notices birds but because he was looking in the opposite direction and inhaling deeply -- deer in the distance. I didn't see any other people in the park. Today is day six since I've said anything to anyone besides the dog. I have no expectation of talking to anyone the rest of the holiday weekend. I'm hoping the receptionist is back from vacation at work on Tuesday because I can say hello to her in the morning. I did join the art committee at church, but I think they mainly need people to bring cookies for new artist openings. I guess I can do that, but it's not very...well, what I was hoping for. I would love to walk with some other dog owner in the park, but I haven't met anyone.

Watching the birds this morning was great. It's a beautiful park and trail. There are great horned owls, too.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

The Zinnia Buffet

The straight row of thumbelina zinnias
is zig-zaggy and not very thumbelina
unless thumbelina means tall and taller
and over there as high as the fence
it wouldn't make a cover shot for
The English Garden magazine

But two swallowtails
a monarch
and a bumblebee as big as a big man's thumb
are tasting one flower and then the next
a little zig-zagginess no impediment
to moving methodically through
what's on offer at the zinnia buffet

x-posted to my poetry blog at

Monday, August 18, 2014

Rolled into a pit on August 11, and haven't climbed out of it yet.

It was something to do with the 40-some Rubbermaid totes and the umpteen blue IKEA bags, everywhere, unpacked, full of things I've packed and unpacked a dozen times over the last several years. The chaos. The inability to make order out of chaos. I used to be such a take-charge person. A move was nothing. That was -- how many? -- moves ago. I've barely made a dent in the unpacking. I found a fork a few days ago. Last night I was eating yogurt with this fork and it occurred to me that I moved in on July 31st and it's August 18th and I really should have unpacked the utensils by now.

Okay, and yes, the rolling into the pit was something to do with the suicide of Robin Williams. He was never a favorite performer of mine. In fact, I never could get through an entire Tonight Show appearance, stand-up, or movie he was in. I had to turn him off. Too much. Manic. Funny at first, and then just too much. But when I heard on Twitter about his suicide -- at that point the sheriff's department spokesperson was saying "by asphyxiation" and people were thinking plastic bag -- I started thinking "If someone like that, with family, successful in his career, all the money in the world, all the help in the world, can afford repeat visits to Hazelden, can kill himself, what about me?" It just somehow seemed like the giant black dog who is always there got bigger all of a sudden. Bigger than the sky.

The giant black dog will get me one day, I know. It's inevitable. When restorative sleep became only a memory, it was another move in the game. The plan is to last long enough to outlive my dog, so that he isn't abandoned to a cage at a humane society. He wouldn't understand.

He's only 8 now. So I have to crawl out of this latest pit. I've been walking the dog at the Oakdale Nature Preserve, but the giant black dog follows us. Exercise, nature, sunlight. All sorts of things are available, except people. There are no people in my world. I am for some reason prohibited people. I have to figure out how to get out of this current pit, even though there are no people on the surface to welcome me. The dog is only 8. I have several years to get through.