tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75477448260040332532024-03-05T22:00:21.947-08:00MalfeezAlexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00409979426836239738noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-28516035048077225742013-03-29T19:53:00.000-07:002013-03-29T19:54:42.992-07:00First Day of Retirement<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(for Bill) </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Life is full of firsts. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYYgqPWsMMJlD5PfTAiS7Rn_uZrzkBzCGIcgCf55dn8rMROc0Inj_6h-0rV-5SD4MaVds_O0l1srPLBKRFFGW35SGionhUIF3OeSDjO9gD3EmskXd3XftdYWytAIm1S3F1Nyw0a3W9-FW/s1600/Bill1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYYgqPWsMMJlD5PfTAiS7Rn_uZrzkBzCGIcgCf55dn8rMROc0Inj_6h-0rV-5SD4MaVds_O0l1srPLBKRFFGW35SGionhUIF3OeSDjO9gD3EmskXd3XftdYWytAIm1S3F1Nyw0a3W9-FW/s320/Bill1.JPG" width="260" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Sometimes it feels like that's all there is. You pass one milestone, only to start over again as a shaky beginner. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBCCnwXB-bWcpCRP8zA9HY4FZSW2d5wRxfMycgi6o_weWeSZQSnOxEMQq1PnlaTi8VxaDb_i9RAgYHD_23TK4gtA0IoxgNqdWetzv81FG0qz56HK7xfa4Z5f47jMcCsYuHypZPgxNu41S/s1600/Bill2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBCCnwXB-bWcpCRP8zA9HY4FZSW2d5wRxfMycgi6o_weWeSZQSnOxEMQq1PnlaTi8VxaDb_i9RAgYHD_23TK4gtA0IoxgNqdWetzv81FG0qz56HK7xfa4Z5f47jMcCsYuHypZPgxNu41S/s320/Bill2.JPG" width="168" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just when you begin to feel that you've gained some expertise, </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCu5gfaWCqZ2jOxSkxOj7mOKT6DisSsVS1sOyZGAjIK__ji1lTbJK1RP5Z96-lY3AzxbL_t9lYvNwD0kMYVUBMNh3N1D7bn-71V1UsoN3AmNF6pT5qL4RdkkqVG5VtjFE6jlh07HtpIqJ/s1600/Bill3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCu5gfaWCqZ2jOxSkxOj7mOKT6DisSsVS1sOyZGAjIK__ji1lTbJK1RP5Z96-lY3AzxbL_t9lYvNwD0kMYVUBMNh3N1D7bn-71V1UsoN3AmNF6pT5qL4RdkkqVG5VtjFE6jlh07HtpIqJ/s320/Bill3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />it might be time to let all that go. Zen Buddhists call it "beginner's mind."<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or you could just call it, "Welcome to the world. It's all one big first." </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7-h218H-81KeZ5GLcTMPQ9ScEExdZWGsaOixutCJE691LdCOZRoK_f6w-ceQ-upN-b4tFnax8EnLNItNbbujA_WpqqLbGb8cahUCxIkPJmoHxStd-KjTyEHPfRfn-mYZFEY5pDCHUz8V/s1600/Bill4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7-h218H-81KeZ5GLcTMPQ9ScEExdZWGsaOixutCJE691LdCOZRoK_f6w-ceQ-upN-b4tFnax8EnLNItNbbujA_WpqqLbGb8cahUCxIkPJmoHxStd-KjTyEHPfRfn-mYZFEY5pDCHUz8V/s320/Bill4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-72105643462123497682012-10-09T12:33:00.002-07:002012-10-09T12:47:07.787-07:00Harvard Museum of Natural History<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
(for Wendy) <br />
<br />
When you take the bus to Cambridge to visit the museum, do not get too sidetracked when walking through Harvard Yard-- either by your lack of direction or by the one shiny toe of the John Harvard
statue.<br />
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<br />
You will want plenty of time to enjoy the specimens. A few
things to know: Yes, all the glass flowers are really glass. Please do
not lean on the cases. And, no, you are not the only one who is given
pause by the sad gorilla in the corner. He was tracked for days many
years ago. You'd be sad, too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxtBd55X9w6VssmOYMLpQFcqd1btmaYzmCxWVpwRZR4PU5AsC1DjMkqzj2zMNil2URNK0peftBAepHtNVgkjF1ieH0PBieoM-75TEAZoMXtgiq0IUDB7P2xEjqFuLOT0Gl6SNrkD3wPXn/s1600/malfeezwendy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxtBd55X9w6VssmOYMLpQFcqd1btmaYzmCxWVpwRZR4PU5AsC1DjMkqzj2zMNil2URNK0peftBAepHtNVgkjF1ieH0PBieoM-75TEAZoMXtgiq0IUDB7P2xEjqFuLOT0Gl6SNrkD3wPXn/s320/malfeezwendy2.jpg" width="294" /></a></div>
<br />
You may have gone to a state school at
which you received an stellar education (<i>ad astra per aspera</i>!), but you will still appreciate that there is such a thing as a "Harvard Mastodon"
with a suspicious history. You will appreciate that there is such a
thing as a narwhal. And the bizarre and lonely animals that evolved in
isolated South America: Hello. Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-26403406805175378712011-12-09T12:36:00.000-08:002011-12-11T08:57:12.468-08:00Quick-draw Friday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfV72aShysqnqQBh-n1WpgXRy7A2tkXpyNalUflVJ9pOW-6RpEYNIQOUcmjoedKOMtuapaKcuGZxBfX-vAbeqQyn0IP4ao4G8G_UUbRvjyJ51Hct1caXpaDJsr6l0sdIbpdsW8UOj0VTd/s1600/IMG_20111209_150718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfV72aShysqnqQBh-n1WpgXRy7A2tkXpyNalUflVJ9pOW-6RpEYNIQOUcmjoedKOMtuapaKcuGZxBfX-vAbeqQyn0IP4ao4G8G_UUbRvjyJ51Hct1caXpaDJsr6l0sdIbpdsW8UOj0VTd/s320/IMG_20111209_150718.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">All the strange meetings we have in our dreams . . . Last week one of my students said she met me on the street and we decided to go to Sbarro for lunch. I'd never choose Sbarro for lunch. And last night I went to visit my brother. He was attending a small liberal arts college where the lack of structure turned into something nefarious, but I couldn't figure out what. Then I was visiting Montana with a friend, but I accidentally drove off without her and ended up at that mountain from Close Encounters. Where will I end up tonight?</span>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-5759170028472421412011-10-31T07:33:00.000-07:002011-10-31T07:55:11.478-07:00Things I Used to Be Scared Of, Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Putting on turtlenecks (because something might grab you while you're waiting to be able to see again) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
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</style> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU1N0wgn9IYYqOANjsnnh3mKaiDjuolQPV9mCtk2oVfjYfd5Y66Y5wEOSUlH2BnOjw4XjUX78R8WlXNlcdAQ1Pi_YMBZ2_MSahma7BVaDTmY93VW4496T0aDr8Y4ULUd-pxco95kP8Yo/s1600/malfeez_3_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU1N0wgn9IYYqOANjsnnh3mKaiDjuolQPV9mCtk2oVfjYfd5Y66Y5wEOSUlH2BnOjw4XjUX78R8WlXNlcdAQ1Pi_YMBZ2_MSahma7BVaDTmY93VW4496T0aDr8Y4ULUd-pxco95kP8Yo/s1600/malfeez_3_1.jpg" /></a></div> Escalators<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o05N6YJtA-OBNGBCiGJEnyogQL4mSULFC2xalM3Fz5hzICd-KVaare6uNvb5YLaDg7KCqwRm1fZGwGL70p02E8mV4BKaRnDBLqfVQ5XkQr50GwBLRK86X2JC7EYwbuWzNYd29-VqoDg/s1600/malfeez_3_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7o05N6YJtA-OBNGBCiGJEnyogQL4mSULFC2xalM3Fz5hzICd-KVaare6uNvb5YLaDg7KCqwRm1fZGwGL70p02E8mV4BKaRnDBLqfVQ5XkQr50GwBLRK86X2JC7EYwbuWzNYd29-VqoDg/s400/malfeez_3_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> Falling asleep in a dark room<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS78jauK2ZLV3WjGsvRh2DdH7eEDZm1WLnkkkFBzUqEsT4jhHJP4sdTF6giG8nU-Tckw41W1uloIjW12Wie-YL6MtVIgXtvHDLahgctKZDY6OLbKCllH6ptC745xoWwa9mEWnlHJP3bQC_/s1600/malfeez_3_3b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS78jauK2ZLV3WjGsvRh2DdH7eEDZm1WLnkkkFBzUqEsT4jhHJP4sdTF6giG8nU-Tckw41W1uloIjW12Wie-YL6MtVIgXtvHDLahgctKZDY6OLbKCllH6ptC745xoWwa9mEWnlHJP3bQC_/s400/malfeez_3_3b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> Seeing a ghost of an old lady when I get up at night to pee<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwH8VPXSxCjvjn5X0y2CWUYsEh2qT5_Fd0P3Cb3Y2-FKwrp5w_pDAk8F4oKh6TEJ1qNgwAgZ3JveId5iv0YLQ7YmHB-Ip0uJsxNfot50bcNuyFR1-gbDPjerMh6Qnd4Gy-82n7S2IXvY/s1600/malfeez_3_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwH8VPXSxCjvjn5X0y2CWUYsEh2qT5_Fd0P3Cb3Y2-FKwrp5w_pDAk8F4oKh6TEJ1qNgwAgZ3JveId5iv0YLQ7YmHB-Ip0uJsxNfot50bcNuyFR1-gbDPjerMh6Qnd4Gy-82n7S2IXvY/s1600/malfeez_3_4.jpg" /></a></div>(OK, I'm still sort of scared of that one . . .) </div>Alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00409979426836239738noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-82891517719471805272011-10-12T10:44:00.000-07:002011-10-12T11:23:13.862-07:00Truth's Secretary<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">When I was a smaller human, I liked the idea and practice of paperwork.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">I was set up with a desk and old office supplies, and I would stamp things, and staple them, and take them to my mom for her initials, then initial them myself and put them in the proper pile. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">It was not <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/63/2#/20583631/0">dolor</a> to me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ98Z-LOcRd87f0bfgocEB8aLimXyJUQ_96FVQJ55ahhYYfvhFNo5zE7Xv_Jpg2UCbxlTcfBHzx4LIY_QplrrimIBeHwURi-AGs4vbzT9WH8Y-qdW6mWDztKEHE4806a06lsYq-Dw_xHd2/s1600/malfeez2_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ98Z-LOcRd87f0bfgocEB8aLimXyJUQ_96FVQJ55ahhYYfvhFNo5zE7Xv_Jpg2UCbxlTcfBHzx4LIY_QplrrimIBeHwURi-AGs4vbzT9WH8Y-qdW6mWDztKEHE4806a06lsYq-Dw_xHd2/s200/malfeez2_4.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">But if my life had been only that—yes, dolor.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><style>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">It was the comforting click-clack sound of stapling, the deeply familiar blue-black of the stamp pad ink. O, how I loved my date stamp, with the moveable numbers!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes I would add a thumbprint to something, if it needed to be extra official. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">Charles Simic wrote this: </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">Each one of us, our poets claim, has the potentiality of being the truth’s secretary for a brief spell.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">And, anyway, “metaphor,” via Latin, via Greek means “to transfer.” Means, also to link things, connect them, be an attentive amanuensis. To staple together. (Also, remember carbon paper? Carbon paper fits in here somehow.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaZJwMKlXCeS7DVSWbfVKYWlJXKgK7yOCRK67b183eUI9HigNzCQgeCOkWWwdPQ8mVNyVpmCfU4_teu-l-vviZO2CHvA0K2OKLAqJC19CsjyXUz7QRbUttv6IOgRInahzjU2mW9J5UhUc/s1600/malfeez2_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaZJwMKlXCeS7DVSWbfVKYWlJXKgK7yOCRK67b183eUI9HigNzCQgeCOkWWwdPQ8mVNyVpmCfU4_teu-l-vviZO2CHvA0K2OKLAqJC19CsjyXUz7QRbUttv6IOgRInahzjU2mW9J5UhUc/s640/malfeez2_5.jpg" width="531" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;"> </span> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;"><i>WHILE YOU WERE OUT </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">To: Joanna</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">Re: Notes for a poem</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt;">The other day on the subway (the B train), the sense that everyone was doing a performance piece, playing themselves, costumed and attituded, <a href="http://www.moma.org/interactives/exhibitions/1997/sherman/selectedworks.html">Cindy Sherman</a>-style. The delight of that, the momentary satisfaction of seeing your own “character.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-53443672095369045012011-10-03T10:21:00.000-07:002011-10-12T11:22:10.161-07:00Dear Brother:<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ez38vF7q06G_1-kZf_whhsamtLXVSh8uejZ_AYOPznEjF5VVcs3pGRoGVV9xYSRwWz0XQzYSDGuy0MyXfQP_7Q3O-MnPaSg-6j6Ja47r9LzueZVpsAF7EOMdm1onABxJvu8OOI8nnVr6/s1600/poem3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ez38vF7q06G_1-kZf_whhsamtLXVSh8uejZ_AYOPznEjF5VVcs3pGRoGVV9xYSRwWz0XQzYSDGuy0MyXfQP_7Q3O-MnPaSg-6j6Ja47r9LzueZVpsAF7EOMdm1onABxJvu8OOI8nnVr6/s400/poem3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">That summer Mom paid me to stay home with you during the day instead of working at the library, sorry I got up every morning and put you in front of the TV and fell back asleep on the couch for a couple hours while you watched Fraggles and your weird Maya the Bee show and the Beetlejuice cartoon, which you loved but which gave you nightmares. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">Also, you’re welcome. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">Love, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">Sister</span><br />
</div>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-79284622432824141052011-09-12T10:14:00.000-07:002011-10-12T11:22:31.356-07:00Suze Orman Prose Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiA266j2TO4x05iamhkVIrQvu1VutPhLBjjbRGIJBLFqZeIovxSSrXxXu73ElvD4SZ3116hfZgqE93OGA4MLzRx2CjkkSG2HgEU6priKU3SXgXnouY4ag0y-ySRMOGfWAMBEey0Hp-mqb/s1600/poem2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiA266j2TO4x05iamhkVIrQvu1VutPhLBjjbRGIJBLFqZeIovxSSrXxXu73ElvD4SZ3116hfZgqE93OGA4MLzRx2CjkkSG2HgEU6priKU3SXgXnouY4ag0y-ySRMOGfWAMBEey0Hp-mqb/s400/poem2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Watching Suze Orman before bed seemed like a recipe for whatever, but I did it anyway. I was not bringing home $25K per month, like the guy who called in to ask permission to send his four year-old daughter to private grammar school for $36K/year. (APPROVED.) In bed I put in my earplugs and took sleepy breaths. The radiators were off, even though it was still winter outside, even though it was late March. I thought of horse breaths on a chill day. Have I ever seen horse breaths on a chill day in real life? If I had gone to a private grammar school, would I still be here thinking of horse breaths on a chill day? Oh, Suze. </span>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7547744826004033253.post-48944711781698791012011-09-01T09:23:00.000-07:002011-10-12T11:22:51.125-07:00After the Botanical Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4L5NljTn31vVtODVfiGmBLG9cCScM4_OxWLAgX0G8HxMLfPrB9oorwnIfbpy8jkN1K2SKVt9Divcvto5l0tvJPkvA8eoy5CtfFFC-EG2lbRFJepoq2dJ6IXd3HQFqUzgWYKoHqZULdAbz/s1600/poem1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4L5NljTn31vVtODVfiGmBLG9cCScM4_OxWLAgX0G8HxMLfPrB9oorwnIfbpy8jkN1K2SKVt9Divcvto5l0tvJPkvA8eoy5CtfFFC-EG2lbRFJepoq2dJ6IXd3HQFqUzgWYKoHqZULdAbz/s400/poem1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My brother and I sit at McDonald's eating soft serve and French fries. He says, "Let's each say something positive," and for a moment we just sit and stare. Stumped. Then we realize we are eating ice cream in the middle of a weekday afternoon. That we are together. That we exist on the Earth at the same time.</span><br />
</div>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10854409769532835690noreply@blogger.com0