In my bag this morning, plums picked from the
backyard tree, some leftover Mediterranean hummus (which inspired me late
yesterday to coin a new phrase:
“ho hummus!”), and one of the new whole wheat sandwich thins, which I
like a lot—very soft and good.
The plums, I thought, were Mirabelle, but must be
Japanese or Santa Rosa, a deep purple.
In my writing bag, the short story I’m working on
called “Milk” set in the Cathedral close in Durham, and query packets to get
out to literary agents.
In my bag of tricks for getting through the day, a
Provence Style (my favorite of some pumpkin-colored walls), my sun-art paper
kit (waiting for falling leaf season), book ends to fold meditatively, and
these lines from Cecil Day Lewis (one of our authors, and Daniel’s father):
“To lift, to fetch, to drive, to shed, to pen,Are acts I recognize, with all they meanOf shepherding the unruly, for a kind ofControlled woolgathering is my work too.”
Which reminds me of another poet, Kay Ryan, who
likes to talk about woolgathering, and said, for instance,
“I've always taught part time, to a great extent, so that I could have most of my life for wool-gathering. You have to do it about 100 pounds of wool-gathering for an ounce of really good language. So it's very inefficient, and it takes an awful lot of time . . . ”
But those of us who love to woolgather, which is
pretty much what I’m doing here, end up eventually with (if nothing else), the
proverbial “three bags full.”
image:
Monterey Bay Spice Company
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