Hot summer nights can be chilly

A mom writes about a man eating a preserved head.

I'm trying to see black and white, polka dots and stripes, or grey
no one or the other.

The world is both random objects falling from the sky and planned destruction.

Indian women save seeds and walk to heal while
oil is burning in Tripoli.

A poem I like

KEEPING SOUND TRACK
by Buddy Wakefield

Keep allowing the next life to be offered to us daily

via live streaming satellite by entitled white
rabbits and tragedy addicts

dragging their fingernail

file

cabinets

across records of the damage your nerves have done.

Call them inglorious preachers of a sensational game.

Tell them sensations and games are at the root of
why they are walking so inefficiently,

warped 45s with credit card swagger charging up
a sad sad path

like Ray Charles singing Seven Spanish Angels to
the bottom of the barrel in

broad daylight.  Stop congregating in the valley
just because an echo sounds good when it agrees
with itself.

If I was an abused welfare mom we'd be a better match. But I'm not.

Yesterday was Pi day.  I got to have some peach pie with fat free ice cream with Dina and Summer.  I had just finished reading Lit the night before which got me thinking about sobriety, prayer and miracles.  The presence of grace was a theme in the movie Philomena that Dina and I went to see  as well.

Of course as is typical with me thinking about sobriety led to a desire to to get drunk and last Tuesday started at the New Orleans tapas place and ended at Chopsticks II.  I flirted with a derelict but made it to bed alone.

The second book I picked up at Powell's with Mia last month is The Executioner's Song.

Deadline

Here is a woman's self-help blog about making mistakes that maybe reading will help me feel philosophical about making mistakes:  http://www.visionmagazine.com/archives/0705/mind_spirit1.html

Here is a song that can make me feel better about making mistakes but maybe only if they are intentional, not unintentional:

I turned in something today just under the wire.  Kind of frantic at the end and the document I'd been writing and rewriting over and over sent to press metaphorically with a typo, at least one that I put in just at the end fidgeting with the words.  Of course the more important more people who might see my work, the more the glaring and stupid the error feels.  But I realize I should care more when the error is significant or something more is at stake more than my ego.  But those types of mistakes, the real big ones mostly seem out of my power to avoid or too scary to confront.  If I can't manage typos in documents I prepare for work, what else is slipping through the cracks?

I feel like the clock is ticking.

I wish I could say I've learned something this year.   A lot of things happened in 1963 and we are still trying to make sense of it all. What will 2013 look like in 50 years?



Let the buyer beware?  Guys who look like Dick Cheney often make money off of death? I knew that already. 



I met some admirable new people and got to see some old friends.  Potential pain with each.  Saying goodbye feels like death to me but more sad--a dead person (dog) isn't around corporeally somewhere not being with me.  Either they are gone or they are ghosty spirits imminent.  BBC thinks the unlived moments are infinite.  But in my mind death puts an end to potential (in this realm at least) and it is the all the lost moments and choices not made when we are alive that make me sad.

So far my favorite movie of the year is Our Idiot Brother which was released in 2011.  It bought tears to my eyes.

Now I'm watching Bachelorette which seems awesome too.  There is an actress who looks like the woman in Y La Bamba and they keep saying Becky.