1. Every two weeks, on Sunday, I get to join Bill, Diane, Colette, Val, and Bridgit on Zoom for an afternoon of conversation and reflection. Today, Colette and Val were occupied with other things. Bill, Diane, Bridgit, and I, however had a splendid visit. To my particular delight, at one point the conversation turned toward poetry and I confessed that as much as I love poetry, it's difficult for me to read poetry by myself. I do much better in a social setting.
I used to love teaching poetry in my LCC courses. It wasn't just the discussions, but it was the feeling I had of gathering with a bunch of other people around the poems -- almost like a campfire -- and experiencing them together. I have enjoyed going to poetry readings for the same reason and I've deeply enjoyed that when Bill performs his songs on Tuesday nights online, that he selects a favorite poet and reads a handful of that poet's works. When Rita and I team taught English composition and Philosophy, we introduced out students to a lot of poetry, largely through PBS programs we played on the VCR, hosted by Bill Moyers. The poems were powerful, but, for me, even more powerful was the collective experience of being with 15-25 other people all listening to these poems together.
We talked for a while about Wallace Stevens, a favorite of mine; Bridgit and I have had a long running shared love of his poem, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" and I experienced a rush of ecstasy when Bridgit recited Stevens' line, "Even the bawds of euphony", an exotic and musical line that comes from Stevens' 10th way of looking at a blackbird:
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
Me: Ahhhh! Wow!
2. After about two and half hours or so on ZOOM, I put my new pedometer around my neck, strapped on my back pack, and strolled to Yoke's to pick up a few things. Maybe I've mentioned this before, but I'll do it again. I just can't quite get used to how sweet it smells to cross the Hill Street bridge over the CdA River. Growing up, I crossed that bridge regularly, whether I was walking to the YMCA or to the junior high. Nothing grew along the gray river's banks and the river smelled metallic, sometimes with a whiff of sewage. It was dead, polluted, slate colored, stinky. Now the river is recovering. The water is clear. Trees and other foliage thrive near the bridge and smell alive and sweet. It's a pleasure. It's one, for many years, I never dreamed I'd experience back when mining and smelting thrived in the Silver Valley.
3. Debbie had been outside knitting. I returned from Yoke's, put the groceries away, and fixed myself a bowl of leftover pasta, sauteed mushrooms, butter, pepper and Parmesan cheese. Debbie came into the living room and we decided to watch Monk. We are into the second season now. Randy Newman sings, "It's a Jungle Out There" as the Monk theme song. At some point, I mixed myself a dirty martini with three almond stuffed green olives. We watched two episodes. Monk solved one homicide at Trudy's* high school alma mater and another in San Macros, Mexico. To do so, Monk survives being bullied, about three attempts to kill him, dehydration, and Sharona passing out after partying with college kids.
*Trudy is Monk's deceased wife.
Here's a limerick by Stu:
It's strange how our country now stands
States vary from requests to demands.
Wear your mask, keep your distance,
Is suggested or insistence.
But all agree with your Mom, “wash your hands!”
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