Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's Bête Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Monday, November 19, 2007

Our default internet page at our home computer is this Day and Night World Map, which tracks the rotation of the earth vis-a-vis the sun and the moon, 24/7.

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A few times in the last few months we have exchanged babysitting with the next-door neighbors. The kids are great friends and they love sleepovers, and a sleepover means that one couple can go out for the evening.

S- sent us a picture today of C- reading a book in bed to their two kids and our son, acting the story out with a mock-serious face and cracking the kids up. And for some reason I flashed on something my sister told me about our good friend H-’s funeral five years ago. H-’s daughter had been my sister’s best friend from about the age of 5 through junior high, and through the two girls both families became close -- H-’s widow was visiting my mom when my son and I visited last month. Among the photos at H-’s wake was one of him sitting and reading a book to bunch of kids piled on him, including my sister, then a small child, and her friend. My sister told me that back then it was typical for H- to be piled with kids on top of him.

“I am afflicted with thoughts of mortality.”

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Time sweeps us along so gently. Age creeps up on us. We hardly notice the continual transitions, each one is so tiny.

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I’m younger than I’ll ever be.

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We may go to an open mic tomorrow night, then it’s the holiday. I usually take Wednesday before Thanksgiving off. Looking forward. Maybe work on some writing this week-end, play some guitar. Saturday my son and I watched Ohio State beat Michigan -- an outcome I expected. Sunday night after dinner I asked if he wanted to sing some songs and he said, “No, watch football!” So we watched football for a while, then a bit of the American Music Awards. I enjoyed Fergie’s quote of that Little Richard song “The Girl Can’t Help It” (written by Bobby Troup). The kid asked me what songs he could write to be a famous musician some day. If I only knew, kid!

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Reading poems by Robert Duncan this evening while cooking dinner for tomorrow. I love his exalted, almost priestly tone; his reverence -- he has the imagination and the syntactical shiftiness to make it work on me. I love the sense of language in a state of metamorphosis in a lot of his poetry; the reverence toward life and language and the way they are intertwined.

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Time for bed. G’night.

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