Sunday, July 19, 2009

Sunday, 6:08 p.m.

Pitting the cherries. Stemming the blueberries. Measuring the cream.

Chopping the dill. Slicing the butter. Unwrapping the salmon.

Shelling the peas. Sauteeing the garlic flowers. Halving the cherry tomatoes.

Peeling the big red onions. Slicing the portabello mushrooms.

Turning the page. Drinking the ice water. Choking on the woodsmoke.

Humming. Listening to the wind. Not thinking about much.


Matthew Ritger said...

You make blogging so beautiful. Isn't it funny how Barthes saw blogs looming? I wish I could live perpetually in his first phase of journaling - "I don't worry about finding something to say: the raw material is right here, right now; a kind of surface mine; all I have to do is bend over - I don't have to transform anything." And not in his second, which is re-reading what one wrote, and wanting to die. Ha

Dawn Potter said...

The second phase is, alas, all too true. It's like listening to a tape-recording of one's voice.

Blogging would be more beautiful if there were a better word for blog. In Quebec they say "blogue," which is a marginal improvement. Maybe something along the lines of "public journal" or "letter to everyone."