2012-07-17 - 4:48 a.m.
time and its articulation
eventually, you will have to replace things, like underwear and canning jars. you left your jacket on the bus, and your friends have loaded their books and beds and teakettles into a series of rented vans. everyone seems to be leaving for montana or madagascar or a place that is rainier than portland and much closer to canada.
your favorite swimsuit wore thin and came apart at the seams. you can only hold onto so many things.
* * *
in between pages of writing and revising, i put up jars of peaches, spicy pickled okra and dilly beans. i realize i need to build some new shelves, as the particle board in my kitchen cabinets was never meant to take this weight.
* * *
reading: w.h. davies, autobiography of a supertramp.
listening to: shallow, beach fossils.
working on: the most boring part of my dissertation.
in the garden: the echeveria is flowering, because it loves the heat.