My Back Yard

This year I’m aiming for a destination known as "my somewhat more peaceful house." When I think peaceful, I think uncluttered.

I’m currently sitting in my home office, the epitome of clutter. In addition to furniture, my rug is topped by:

    Roller suitcase from my long weekend two weeks ago

    Paper bag full of old filing

    Stepstool

    In-box

    Magazines 

    Paper bags with recycling to go out on Wednesday 

    Tote bag used for work

    Tote bag dedicated to Niblets

    Handbag 

    Banker’s box filled with files 

It doesn’t sound peaceful at all. Don’t you agree? 

I think you’ve got the picture. Now multiply it by piles on every surface. This is my house.

I have a few steps planned for the New Year:

1. Arrange for academic library to pick up my book donation

2. Have used book seller make an offer on my remaining academic books

3. Dispose of my record collection

These small steps won’t get me all the way to a more serene environment. But they’re a start.

You can read more writing on the theme of destination. 

"Your dictionary as a key to a writer’s creativity" from Angela Booth’s Writing Blog offers a useful exercise.

I will try it the next time I’m stumped for a topic to write about.  

Iggy got an A in his graduate school class on information technology.

Congratulations! 

If you spend any time doing copyediting, "Lesser Known Editing and Proofreading Marks" should make you laugh.

 I loved the changes suggested by Twitches, so here’s the revised, more economical version of my poem with better line breaks. For original version, see the bottom of this post.

Thanks, Twitches!

Cigarette smoke wafts through the lobby,

an ashtray gawps on the toilet stall wall.

Europe is no place for a doctor’s daughter

who saw frames of open heart surgery

at the end of Uncle Joe’s home movies. 

A heart throbbing under skin pulled apart

by metal tongs offers no incentive

to smoke, even when followed by little boys

in pajamas opening presents under the tree. 

============================ 

ORIGINAL VERSION 

Cigarette smoke wafts through the lobby,

an ashtray gawps on the toilet stall wall.

I’m in Europe.

It’s no place for a doctor’s daughter

who saw frames of open heart surgery

at the end of "Uncle" Joe’s home movies. 

They followed the shots of

little boys in pajamas

opening Christmas presents

under the tree.

A heart throbbing

under skin pulled apart

by metal tongs

offers no incentive to smoke.

PoetryThursday friends, what would it take to convert this poem idea into a true poem? Is there something more you’d like to learn or that you’d like me to describe? Are there lines or images that I should delete? I’m open to your suggestions.

"I’ll feel this when I wake up tomorrow morning."

That’s what I thought as I went through my new exercise regime with my personal trainer this afternoon.

But it hit me sooner than that. I felt it when I started down the stairs outside the drugstore that I visited after the gym. As my knee bent to lower me to the first step, I struggled to turn on my metaphorical brakes. My knee wanted to keep flying forward under the heavy weight of my body. I took a deep breath and pulled myself up. I had to work at each of the twenty or so steps.

Actually, I had felt the strain at the gym, too. My muscles quivered as I moved the free weights. 

I’ve pretty much given up on weight loss resolutions. Either the weight loss switch flips. Or it doesn’t. There’s no sense to making resolutions that I can’t keep.

Instead I’m making an exercise resolution. I hereby resolve to work up to exercising three days a week in 2007. My goal is to create a more energetic, healthier me in 2007. 

I have scheduled an appointment with a personal trainer for December 27. I’m prepared to try a weekly appointment for 10 weeks, in hope of getting my butt over to the gym on a regular basis.

I’d also like to take at least one class per week. Classes make me push my limits. I’m too easy on myself when I work out alone.

What’s your New Year’s resolution? 

Today Iggy is in the same boat as a father who bought his children a jungle gym with assembly required.

Except in Iggy’s case, he bought a galvanized storage shed to protect seeds from the ravaging squirrels who teethed their way into our heavy-duty plastic bin. The squirrels got a few extra snacks out by breaking into the bin. But ultimately their handiwork let rain soak and ruined large bags of hulled sunflower seeds and bird food.

Last night Iggy took the shed assembly instructions into bed. He read them thoroughly in preparation. He also set two alarm clocks for 7 a.m. They rang in tandem for less than 30 minutes this morning before he hoisted himself out of bed.

Iggy steeled himself to be efficient today. "Basically, I’ve got to accomplish two days of assembly in one day," he said. "You’re crazy if you think I’m going out for lunch with you." I had foolishly broached the idea of going to the yummy buffet at Masala Art, an Indian restaurant.  

Sometimes I just have to eat sweets.

The wind blows from the west. A pale sun rises in the east. And I know I’ve got to eat sugar or die trying.

Sometimes I try to fight that urge.  

I pop my morning vitamins, mix flaxseed into my chai-flavored water buffalo yogurt, and wait until 10:30 for my officially sanctioned snack of cashew butter on rice crackers washed down with a sweet fiber drink.

Sometimes it works.

It succeeds in pushing away my sugar cravings, sometimes.

Most of the time, it doesn’t work. I’m forced into my car to run to the store for green tea flavored mochi or chocolate dipped chocolate chip dunkers or a bar of dark chocolate.

Sometimes my body overtakes my mind and stuffs it in the trash barrel. 

Your mother called you

a weasel on the basketball court.

She said it with love.

You were a small boy.

Fast on your feet,

you darted between them,

homed in on the basket.

No one would have pegged you

as a star,

yet you shone

when given the ball.

Today you’re

still a weasel 

slipping stealthily  

into my heart.

I owe a big thanks to my favorite poetry editor for whacking this poem into shape.

Readers, I apologize for the double-spacing of my poem. Ever since I installed a WYSIWYG add-in, the software forces a blank line when I push the ENTER key.