fall colors

2003-09-11 - 10:25 a.m.


Took the car in this morning, and rode my bike from there. I like our car guy -- his name's Daniel (pronounced, you know, the Spanish way) and he has pictures of his two cute boys all over the wall -- in the snow, playing soccer, at the beach. Very nice.

I saw a lady getting into her car, which was mysteriously filled with verizon boxes. I realized that yesterday the roto-rooter people had been at her house.


And -- it only took me 35 minutes today, although it's not quite fair to compare since I didn't start at quite the same place. Still - it was not very far away.

Now I am very hot. I've got long pants on, which is probably a big mistake.

Also, the weather is sooo very nice -- I think we should go backpacking. Hmmm. It's perfectly lovely out. Warm days, cool nights, fall colors --

Okay -- what else.

Homework so far has been relatively painless -- both girls have been good about just getting it done.

Nora's room looks like a bomb went off in her dresser, sending clothes all over the place.


Here's a poem -- forgive the awful format.

>No one came home



>Max was in bed that morning, pressed

>against my feet, walking to my pillow

>to kiss my nose, long and lean with aqua-

>marine eyes, my sun prince who thought


>himself my lover. He was cream and golden

>orange, strong willed, lord of the other

>cats and his domain. He lay on my chest

>staring into my eyes. He went out at noon.


>He never came back. A smear of blood

>on the grass at the side of the road

>where we saw a huge coyote the next

>evening. We knew he had been eaten


>yet we could not know. We kept looking

>for him, calling him, searching. He

>vanished from our lives in an hour, My cats

>have always died in old age, slowly


>with abundant warning. Not Max.

>He left a hole in my waking.



>A woman leaves her children in day care,

>goes off to her secretarial job

>on the 100th floor, conscientious always

>to arrive early, because she needs the money


>for her children, for health insurance,

>for rent and food and clothing and fees

>for all the things kids need, whose father

>has two new children and a great lawyer.


>They are going to eat chicken that night

>she has promised, and the kids talk of that

>together, fried chicken with adobo, rice

>and black beans, food rich as her love.


>The day is bright as a clean mirror.



>His wife has morning sickness so does

>not rise for breakfast. He stops for coffee,

>a yogurt, rushing for the 8:08 train.

>Ignoring the window, he writes his five


>pages, the novel that is going to make

>him famous, cut him loose from the desk

>where he is chained to the phone

>eight to ten hours, making cold calls.


>In his head, naval battles rage. He

>has been studying Midway, the Coral

>Sea, Guadalcanal. He can recite

>tonnage, tides, the problems with torpedoes.


>For five years, he has prepared.

>His makeshift office in the basement

>is lined with books and maps. His book

>will sing with bravery and error.


>The day is blue and whistles like a robin.



>His father was a fireman and his brother.

>He once imagined being a rock star

>but by the end of high school, he knew

>it was his calling, it was his family way.


>As there are trapeze families, clans

>who perform with tigers or horses,

>the Irish travelers, tinkers, gypsies,

>those born to work the earth of their farm,


>and those who inherit vast fortunes

>built of the bones of others, so families

>inherit danger and grace, the pursuit

>of the safety of others before their own.


>The morning smelled of the river,

>of doughnuts, of coffee, of leaves.



>When a man fell into the molten steel

>the company would deliver an ingot

>to bury. Something. Where I live

>on the Cape, lost at sea means no body.


>You can't bury a coffin length of sea

>water. There are stones in our grave

>yards with lists of names, the sailors

>from the ships gone down in a storm.


>MIA means no body, no answer,

>hope that is hopeless, the door

>that can never be quite closed.

>Lives are broken off like tree limbs


>in a storm. Other lives simply dissolve

>like salt in warm water and there is

>no shadow on the pavement, no trace

>They puff into nothing. We can't believe.


>We die still expecting an answer.



>Los desparecidos. Did we notice?

>Did we care? in Chile, funded,

>assisted by the CIA, a democratic

>government was torn down and thousands


>brought into a stadium and never seen

>again. Reports of torture, reports of graves

>in the mountains, bodies dumped at sea

>reports of your wife, your son, your


>father arrested and then vanished

>like cigarette smoke, gone like

>a whisper you aren=EDt quite sure you

>heard, a living person who must, who


>must be somewhere, anywhere, lost,

>wounded, boxed in a cell, in exile,

>under a stone, somewhere, bones,

>a skull, a button, a wisp of cloth.


>In Argentina, the women marched

>for those who had disappeared.

>Did we notice? That happened

>in those places, those other places


>where people didn't speak English,

>ate strange spicy foods, had dictators

>or Communists or sambas or goas.

>They didn't count. We didn't count


>them or those they said had been

>there alive and now who knew?

>Not us. The terror has come home.

>Will it make us better or worse?



>When will we understand what terrorists

>never believe, that we are all

>precious in our loving, all tender

>in our flesh and webbed together?


>That no one should be torn

>out of the fabric of friends and family,

>the sweet and sour work of loving,

>burnt anonymously, carelessly


>because of nothing they ever did

>because of hatred they never knew

>because of nobody they ever touched

>or left untouched, turned suddenly


>to dust on a perfect September

>morning bright as a new apple

>when nothing they did would

>ever again make any difference.


>Copyright (c) 2002 Marge Piercy

> Box 1473, Wellfleet MA 02667

I especially like it from 2 though 5.

OKay -- got to go.

I woke up with a leg cramp last night. Signs of my increasing toughness.


out of print - new releases

find me! - 2008-02-12
where I've gone - 2008-02-07
Where I've gone - 2008-02-05
where I've gone - 2008-02-01
New - 2008-02-01


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