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My current reason for little posting of late is the time I'm spending writing, so guess that's good. But I am reading what everyone else is doing, at least, and glad you're mostly all well and entertained. For now, a few updates and then a meme.

Updates: The new cat has acquired a name of sorts--not nearly as elegant as she is. Mop. After rejecting Alice, Sita, Shag, and various other possibilities. She does look like a mop, or maybe a dust bunny. I haven't had a cat like her in quite a while. She totally destroys my old theory of the bitchy calico/tortie and the loud Siamese--she clearly has both, but the dominant strain seems to be the sweet longhair. She has a tiny kitten-like mew, not a Waugh! like Orange or a long whine like Fernie. She's Not Interested in going outside--she can see it all perfectly well from a nice window, thank you. She'd not territorial. BC, our feral but cuddly outside cat, occasionally comes in for a brief turn around the living room or kitchen. Mop barely opens her eyes to see the intruder, and doesn't react at all. BC watches her in terror, oddly, since BC is one tough cookie and has beat up some truly warlike cats in her time, and made both my former cats, Fernie and Orange, dance to her tune. But not Mop. Mop also is a faucet drinker, her only difficult trait, and while she's very sweet is not the big-time purrer that my other cats have been. I think I had a longhaired white cat a while back with this same laidback style. Now we have to find a way to teach her to love travel, and she'll be a very serviceable cat.

Alice the book is also behaving well, or at least appearing on demand. For which I'm thankful. And even more thankful for my Faithful Reader(s?)!

My garden has definitely taken a turn for the better. I (with the help of Elmer who works for pay but clearly feels a lot of pride in our accomplishment) have cleared out lots of blackberries and cherry laurel and general junk, and planted many nice things: pyracantha, Chinese fringe tree, some kind of jasmine ground cover, a couple of oak-leaf hydrangeas and one blue regular one, several Indian hawthornes that hopefully will grow up in front of the somewhat leggy boxwoods, and a lovely pink sasanqua. Also some collards and herbs, and moved some wild roses, iris, and day lilies. And put nice pinestraw beds around it all. Elmer likes nice geometrically straight lines, so I don't have the curves that are so in fashion in landscaping these days, but really that's just the pinestraw--I can make curves later if I crave them. I really think he got a kick out of seeing it all finished, and I was glad. Life is hard for him, but somehow he's still surviving and not in bad trouble--a good achievement for an uneducated black man of our generation. When he comes by again, I'm going to try to get him out of trouble with the food stamp people, and possibly even on disability--he's at least 50 and has had one stroke, he says.

I am reading some books on history--Ireland, Vietnam War, SC--but also Son of a Witch which so far is fun, almost as much as Wicked, of which it's the sequel. Started but didn't love City of Falling Angels although I do love Venice. Have not yet seen the new Harry Potter--maybe tomorrow.

Yoga is coming along. I've done quite a few assisted handstands, and still have hopes of achieving my ambition to do one unassisted by the end of the year. And tiny progress on the wheel (backbend): can now get my head a couple of inches off the floor. Tomorrow I'm totally indulging myself in a private lesson to work on both. More later, on that.

And now I can start thinking about Christmas lights on the small tree out front. So beautiful when done, such a pain in the doing.

ETA: Forgot the Five Simple Pleasures Meme, ganked from midnightsjane:Name 5 of life's simple pleasures, then pick 5 people to do the same. Try to be original and creative and not to use things that someone else has already used. Tag 5 people on your list.

1. Chai tea with lots of ginger and pepper and cardamom, and rich whole milk, on a cold afternoon.
2. Waking up on my own with no alarm clock and no rush to get up.
3. A fresh, unstarted NYT crossword puzzle.
4. Hot roasted oysters and a little glass of single-malt Scotch.
5. Reading a short-short story by my nephew, all grown up and writing fantasy

I'm tagging whoever has some pleasures to share.

Sitting here, my back garden actually looks like a garden, for a little while at least. Daylilies and coneflowers, althea and lantana, all the pinks and yellows from big to little, and lots of rich green lawn. The magic moment, all too rare in the south, between drought and deluge.

I came home one day last week, before I went out of town, to find my neighbor mowing my front lawn (it wasn't hideous, just a tiny bit shaggy after a lot of rain). Bill had arranged with him to get his 11 year old son to mow but only when we were both in Chicago for a long time--and now even though I'm at home, here's the Dad the Preacher doing it. Can't exactly pay him $20. I don't feel at all comfortable. I'm sure he feels it as a neighborly gesture but I feel weird about it, partly because I know he's here as a missionary and everything feels just a little like manipulation, partly because it makes me feel like a wizened old lady (heh, heh, my dears, I can still hobble around after the lawn mower myself, even after all these years...) And partly I feel irritated with myself for not just enjoying a nice favor. But there's something just not easy about this. Will have to hire a real lawn service, I guess.

In simpler and happier news, I've just gotten Charles de Lint's new book of old stories, Quicksilver and Shadow. I've read a few of these--it'll be fun to see them all together as he wants them. And tonight I'll see Travelers and Magicians--more on that tomorrow, but here's the trailer:http://www.travellersandmagicians.com/travellers.html

ganked from ann1962 and oursin

I knew when I planted
how little sun filtered
these close-needled pines
how meager's the sand
how voracious the blight
how melons rot
beans spindle
slug and centipede
succeed

It was
my instep though
the shovel scored
my fingers
the damp much shriveled
shedding seeds
in hoe-drawn lines
my neck the sun burned
as I thinned withered losers
staked the strong shoot
my heart
glory of okra bloom surprised
cream trumpet, purple throated
pistil’s staff gold-dusted
my eyes gauged
fat tomato
ripe in thunder
my tongue was anointed
my throat drenched
juice crunch
sparkle pungence
sliced sizzled canned
a steam a jar of summer

and in autumn’s garden
I uprooted
mildewed failures
leaves cores stalks
I hoed to rot
next year’s compost
against sand & shade
beetle & mold



When you see this, post some poetry in your journal. Leave me a note to tell me you did. There can never be too much poetry.