Wednesday, October 1, 2014


In which we analyze the season and it comes up short

Because we care about you, we provide a key, but we like the anonymity of the numbers better.

October 1.
October 1 sunrise
October 1 Average High, Low.
Full Moon.
Average Dates, First Frost, Fort Wayne.
Peak Fall Foliage, Indiana.
Average Dates, First Freeze, Fort Wayne.
New Moon.
October 31 Average Temperature.
October 31 Sunset.
October 31 Samhain.

C'mon. What else.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Fine. I'll take his advice.

In which we succumb to our better angels. Or worse angels. Or some random angels.

No sane person would work for two days on a bad poem on a dirty refrigerator using only the limited lexicon of a magnet poetry kit. Obviously this person has her priorities all mixed up. But this misdirected person reads stuff like this about writing
Part one: Neglect everything else.
Part two: Get disciplined. Learn to rush to your laptop and open it up. Open the file without asking yourself if you’re in the mood, without thinking about anything else. Just open the file: and then you’re safe. Once the words are on the screen, that becomes your distraction.
So, as far as David Mitchell is concerned, she is on the right track, writing-wise, because it seems this pale frig poem is not the only thing that was written by her today. But some things are better contained in that laptop. Lucky for you.

I just like it

My face above the water / My feet can't touch the ground, / Touch the ground, and it feels like / I can see the sands on the horizon / Every time you are not around

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Never underestimate the value of a good playlist

Come ride with me

Forty-five minutes with a dental wedge and a latex dam, I can take. The last half-hour is dear God please get this the fuck out of my mouth. It's not my first rodeo, I told the dental assistant during her pretreatment warning spiel. In twenty minutes it's this too shall pass while listening to Spotify with one ear. Because the other ear is needed for important instructions like turn this way and relax your jaw. As if. Lenny Kravitz helps a little but nothing drowns out the whine of the highest-pitch drill thing. Does closing my eyes help, all the accoutrements of the room disappear yet these things remain: the numbness and a shaky trust in it, the smell of the latex, a reluctant appreciation of the time-space continuum, and always the sounds. That determined drilling in one unshutable ear and now Nightswimming in the other, a slender moment of coalescence: piano like relentless water, voice a soothing hypnotist, but comes the oboe, that thin, persistent, inevitable reminder: of this chair, this hour, this infinite now.

After that afternoon? We're taking the easy way out

It's not like years ago / The fear of getting caught / The recklessness in water / They cannot see me naked / These things they go away / Replaced by every day

Friday, September 26, 2014

Makin' in, fakin' it

In which we are foiled by technology

And here just last night, daydreaming while watering plants, I was lamenting my lack of imagination, due to an overabundance of common sense and pragmatism. Many would say these are strengths, I realize. Yet this morning I find myself at a brand-new Starbucks on Illinois Road, two computers with me. On one I try to do my actual work, for which I’m paid cash money -- very pragmatic, right? -- and am foiled by the company VPN and an insecure wifi connection. Dorking around trying to circumvent this takes so long I give up and never open the second computer, the turquoise one with the keyboard I love, which is full of imagination. Or at least I hope it is. Obviously, something was written, and work was done, but back at home under the auspices of a secure 16-bit WEP code. I suppose, if I were serious about this, I wouldn’t even have tried writing at a chain-store (if brand new) coffee shop, I’d have gone down the road to the local place. The place with homemade biscotti and in-store roasted coffee. But the roasting machine always makes the place smell, like, at work when an empty glass coffee carafe gets left on a warmer, like burned coffee, not brewed coffee. And always-good-smelling Starbucks, bless their corporate heart, rebranded their food counter with La Boulange products, which is French for ‘Cathy come here right now and have a chocolate croissant.’ Not really, I think it just means, ‘The Bakery,’ decidedly unromantic, even in French. Yet what do I care for particulars? You’re sitting there reading the blog of a person who went to Paris and had Diet Coke and les frites (yea, now, that sounds better in French) at McDoo's. But hey, I was at the Louvre. And I’m getting endless blog mileage out of that one particularly distressing culinary incident. Anyway, I had time to enjoy that warm croissant, and now the mocha is making my kitchen smell pretty damn good. I’m thinking that maybe my imagination’s been perked up a little, what with the French pastry and the coffee smell and all. J.K. Rowling wrote in coffee shops, you know. Kind of wish I could whip up some polyjuice potion and take on the appearance of a real writer, at least. Although I’d have to write and ask J.K. for a hair, or something. Gross. But maybe I've imagined myself into that part, anyway. Appearances can be deceiving. Or not.

At least at home we choose our own playlist

Danger there's a breakdown dead ahead / And just maybe you're in way above your head / I may burn.. might upset you / But you know I'd never let you down

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Trees you traitors

A lament

Regular readers reader will recall the first verse of this repeatedly bad poem from last week. Being the weakling we are, a second verse was written. I've given up apologizing, as you know; still. 

Loss of Light

September you liar
Seven you’re not 
Summer you’re not
Benign you’re not
Nine you are
Light eater
Summer stealer
Bloody leaf thief
September you liar.

Trees you traitors
With red you tease us
With gold you tease us
With fire you burn us
With wind you leave us
Barren you are
Skeleton rattlers
Winter’s lover
Trees you traitors.

Perhaps you can tell we don'r particularly care for the cooler months here at CathyBlogs.

I'm gonna take the weeks, gonna have a fine vacation / I'm gonna take my problem to the United Nations / Well I called my congressman and he said "Whoa!" / "I'd like to help you son but you're too young to vote" / Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do / But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues