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And Words Are All I Have

Because here’s the truth: There’s nothing to fix. No rules to follow.
Nothing to recover from. I’m already perfect just as I am. Right here. Right now.
And guess what?
So are you.

Kerri Grote

Random Musings...

heart traced on window
One thing I detest is snobbery about types of information. Example: Why is knowing, by heart, chemistry’s Periodic Table of Elements somehow more commendable than knowing the names of every one of Love Boat’s 250 episodes?

Yes, there were 250.

And they got me through many a solitary Saturday night. Don't judge.

I’ve always collected fragments of knowledge, which somebody coined factoids... seemingly useless little nuggets of info that turn out to be great conversation fodder. Or just to keep all to yourself.

Here are a few (so called) insignificant facts you can now call your own.

I think they make life a little more interesting.

· Scotland has 421 words for “snow.” Among them: sneesl (to start raining or snowing);
feefle (to swirl); flinkdrinkin (a light snow).

· Armadillo shells are bulletproof. Completely and utterly bullet proof.

· Firefighters use wetting agents to make water wetter. These chemicals reduce the surface tension of plain water so it’s easier to spread and soak into objects, which is why it’s known as “wet water.

· For the light show of fireflies we can thank the oxidation of luciferin —from the Latin lucifer, light-bearer, a generic term for the light-emitting compound found in organisms that generate bioluminescence. Say that five times...

· When Carl Sagan was asked about evolution versus intelligent paraphrase his response; the likelihood of evolution randomly creating mankind is equal to the likelihood of a tornado hitting a junkyard and creating a fully functioning 747. Put that under your pipe, creationists.

antique lace curtain blowing

This just makes me smile: Jane Hirshfield’s The Promise.

Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.
Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.
Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.
Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.
Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.
Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,

book revised

American poet Tony Hoagland. For me, his talent knows no bounds. He died recently and when I revisit his poems - which is often - each one proves a master class in exactly how it should be done.


When the medication she was taking
caused tiny vessels in her face to break,
leaving faint but permanent blue stitches in her cheeks,
my sister said she knew she would
never be beautiful again.
After all those years
of watching her reflection in the mirror,
sucking in her stomach and standing straight,
she said it was a relief,
being done with beauty,
but I could see her pause inside that moment
as the knowledge spread across her face
with a fine distress, sucking
the peach out of her lips,
making her cute nose seem, for the first time,
a little knobby.
I’m probably the only one in the whole world
who actually remembers the year in high school
she perfected the art
of being a dumb blond,
spending recess on the breezeway by the physics lab,
tossing her hair and laughing that canary trill
which was her specialty,
while some football player named Johnny
with a pained expression in his eyes
wrapped his thick finger over and over again
in the bedspring of one of those pale curls.
Or how she spent the next decade of her life
auditioning a series of tall men,
looking for just one with the kind
of attention span she could count on.
Then one day her time of prettiness
was over, done, finito,
and all those other beautiful women
in the magazines and on the streets
just kept on being beautiful
everywhere you looked,
walking in that kind of elegant, disinterested trance
in which you sense they always seem to have one hand
touching the secret place
that keeps their beauty safe,
inhaling and exhaling the perfume of it—
It was spring. Season when the young
buttercups and daisies climb up on the
mulched bodies of their forebears
to wave their flags in the parade.
My sister just stood still for thirty seconds,
amazed by what was happening,
then shrugged and tossed her shaggy head
as if she was throwing something out,
something she had carried a long ways,
but had no use for anymore,
now that it had no use for her.
That, too, was beautiful.

Unicorn money box and coins stacked

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

British writer J.G. Ballard was born 83 years ago today in the foreign controlled sector of Shanghai. He lived there throughout the Second Sino-Japanese War and into
World War II—his popular novel, Empire of the Sun, made into a brilliant film,
was based on his childhood years.


Until next time... I am off to charm motorways...
this image is a grain of sand magnified.

sand under microscope
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I am here, listening. Share your own stories with me, gentle reader.

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The Music of Leaving - Tricia McCallum

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