Of course we got no more rain, but at least I had one day when I didn't have to water. Sigh.
And at least today will be cool. Open windows and hushed fans. Clouds and fog.
I have been working steadily at my desk, and making decent progress, so I may quit the editing early today and do some writing and gardening instead. Till now, it's been too hot to get much done outside, other than watering and harvesting, and I have soil to haul and weeding to do and other such sweaty chores to put behind me. Likewise, I have a notebook full of scribbles that I should start combing into drafts.
I've been reading T. S. Eliot, without much joy; finishing Austen's Pride and Prejudice for the hundred thousandth time, browsing here and there in Roger Angell's baseball essays. I've been picking beans and eggplants and tomatoes and peppers and so much basil. I've got two new poems out in On the Seawall, alongside a review of Phillip B. Williams's latest collection. (I just taught with him at the Frost Place Seminar, so that was a nice surprise.) I wore a new dress to get my hair cut, for no other reason than because I had a new dress.
I am 57 years old and still get a charge out of a new dress. I hope that never changes.
2 comments:
Your poem "Histoire" (especially the image of and your line about Simplicity patterns) and your mention of a new dress made me contemplate my closet and clothing choices. I no longer have to keep the “teacher clothes” that I’ve worn for almost 30 years. I can dress every day as I do in the summer, the same outfit that I wore back when I was 17: homemade jean cut-off skirts, peasant blouses. (My wire rim glasses match those seen in my high school yearbook.) I still have a store of old Simplicity and Butterick patterns stuffed in a drawer, although the sizing measurements don’t match those of 2022. I dress myself from the thrift store. What new dress would I buy (or make)? Would it be the same as one I would have chosen in 1975? (I still crave that maroon India print dress I bought at the Viewmont Mall in Scranton and wore until the fabric rotted.) Will I ever grow up? Do I have to? I feel myself moving backwards in time, much closer to 17 than 65, but quieter : )
Gosh, Nancy. That's a poem you wrote in your comment.
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