GRIZZLY PEAR
Cataclysm!
A few days ago (we surmise), the boy spilled water onto the nightstand and the books below.
By now, several books have dried together.
The old Hagar the Horrible pocket paperback was destroyed. Black mold.
The enormity strikes the boy when he sees the warped covers of his favorite book.
Chicka chicka … BOOM! BOOM!
䷫䷠
There is a fish in the tank. No blame.
I spent the day tweaking retirement projections.
The spreadsheet continuously implied new ways to spreadsheet.
Embodied numbers demanded exponential reanalysis.
You are the unit of measurement.
䷣䷲
Shock comes — oh, oh!
Laughing words — ha, ha!
<crunch>
My wife asked, “Did you steal the hexagon crackers?”
<crunch>
“No…Maybe…Yes?”
<crunch, crunch>
The boy sauntered into the kitchen.
I’d already cleaned the table.
䷆䷓
There is game in the field. It furthers one to catch it.
The tablet rang on the on a stool beside his table.
The boy paused the playdough to answer.
“姐姐和妈妈一起读中文”
Sister is studying Chinese with mom.
Grandma asked him to tell the girl call back.
“好”
OK
He hung up.
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You’re never there to give a speech. You’re there to communicate with your audience.
from “One or a Thousand” in How to Get Your Point Across in 30 Seconds – or Less, by Milo O. Frank
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䷈䷸
Return to the way, How could there be blame in this?
I wasn’t in a playful mood after dinner.
The boy drew at his desk.
He drew a yellow circle with a giant smile.
Then we read a book.
That one with the big spider.
We read it again.
And a book about the solar system (when Pluto was still a planet).
He returned to the desk.
He drew a blob with two arms.
He called it a birthday card.
He added “d a d – e d” in giant letters.
Six weeks early. Just in time.
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A river is, in its essence, a thing that branches.
James Gleick in Nature’s Chaos
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䷕䷝
A white horse comes as if on wings.
I built a spreadsheet to squint at the future.
Lovely projections,
Until the next recession,
Hyper inflation,
Or a bust among the premises I blindly assumed.
I’ll realize the error after it’s too late.
But, today, I had fun.
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but wouldn’t it be better to sit still
from “62” in the Tao Te Ching, by Lao Tzu (transl. Ursula K. Le Guin)
and let the Way be your offering?
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䷜
Water flows on interruptedly and reaches its goal
I wrapped the presents with blue tape and old drawing sheets.
He tore them with gusto.
Minutes undid two nights of work.
My wife marveled at the flight of four years.
I reminisced about my first renovation at the State.
The kids played.
She enjoyed the gifts more than her brother.
Except the book with a giant spider on the cover.
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I hope we can all agree that the long run is made up of a bunch of short runs.
“The long run (and the short runs)” by Seth Godin.
That seems obvious.
The surprising thing is that we live our short runs as if that isn’t true.
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䷴䷫
On the mountain, a tree: the image of development.
My wife was making cupcakes with the kids.
While pouring batter, I saw a familiar consistency.
“Could we make popsicles with this batter?”
“Popsicles?!”
“Uh, I meant pancakes.”
The kids started chanting.
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
Standing on a chair, he bounced with each “P”.
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
That’s enough.
It’s bedtime.
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
“We have to dance first!”
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
“Popsicles and Pancakes!”
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The road-runner is one of the mildest-looking and most graceful birds of the desert, but the spring of the wild-cat to crush down a rabbit is not more fierce than the snap of the bird’s beak as he tosses a luckless lizard.
from “Winged Life” in The Desert, by John C. Van Dyke
䷄䷦
“it furthers one to cross great water”
Fifteen years ago, I resisted the smart phone.
Why would I want to be tethered to the internet?
Now, I abstain in public so my enlightened ass can feel “present”.
Snobbery has come full circle.
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literature as an existential fuction, the search for lightness as a reaction to the weight of being.
from “Lightness” in Six Memos for the Next Millenium, by Calvino.
䷰
Another overproofed dough.
Baked anyway.
Sliced thin.
Freeze half.
We’ll toss a third at the duckpond.
The rest to sabotage my diet.
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I couldn’t very well say, “What an awful thing happened,” or “This story is very gruesome,” because I would make a fool of myself. That kind of thing must be left to the readers, not to writers. Otherwise the whole thing goes to pieces.
from “Prose” in Borges on Writing
䷱䷝