Admonished

Mary Colven and the Parrot

~ Arthur Rackham~

Some British Ballads

Constable & Co. 1919

(Click on the illustration for great detail.)

Kids and Classic Rock

For about the dozenth time (is dozenth a word?) we've gone to listen to talented kids play classic rock music. You don't go to hear kids play; you go to hear some of the best rock musicians in the world. Two incredible guitar players in one group, a thirteen year old girl and a fourteen year old boy, both lead guitarists, including the one vocalist who plays lead guitar. He's developed his own voice, a cross between Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison, coming out of the body of a fourteen year old with the height and bone structure of a ten year old (but his parents are working with an endocronologist on that). I've written about them before, in a post called Energy. Since I wrote that post, they've been featured on a local news station, they've played for various fund raisers, and they had a weekly restaurant gig all summer long. We listened to them last night, at a small venue holding no more than one hundred. They filled the place, like "the Beatles at Shea Stadium," and the crowd grew hoarse from cheering them on. I wish them well. They will go far.

Poem: Taylor Maple

I don't play my guitar often enough to deserve owning such a beautiful instrument, with its Flame Maple back and sides, and Spruce top with an abalone rosette; but when I do play my guitar, the sound it produces is a joy, a lighter and more melodic sound than a guitar made of Rosewood and Spruce, the model my husband owns.

The Maple lends itself to fingerstyle guitar. I was becoming proficient in certain melody lines and fingerstyle techniques and patterns, when I mostly abandoned it for creative writing. I like it when a musician friend of ours comes over and plays it, because he utilizes its range, and opens up its voice.

He was with us, when I purchased it, so I knew what the instrument could do, and I couldn't pass up its beauty and the slight reduction on its negotiated price. I copied the thumbnail photo from a web site. It doesn't do my guitar justice, but you can see its basic shape.

A Song that Tells a Story

Here's another song, called Transfer, from (Five for Fighting) John Ondrasik's new album, Slice. I enjoy the song, in part, because it tells a story, that for me at least, is taking multiple hearings to assess. It reminds me of a situation I experienced in real life, long ago, though the details are dissimilar; but this song's story has an ending, that for me does not exist.

If you click on the YouTube image and click More Info, you will see the lyrics, broken up in a way John Ondrasik may or may not intend. It reads a bit like cryptic poetry. The lyrics included with the CD are not broken into stanzas; however, the posted breaks seem to parallel the way Ondrasik sings his song.

The Beauty of Libraries

Terresa has a great post about libraries at her blog, The Chocolate Chip Waffle. Readers responded by sharing their own experiences with favorite libraries and librarians. This is my response to what she wrote:

My favorite library was the one I went to when I was a child. It was in our local shopping center, down a brick lined alcove. When I was old enough, my mom did the grocery shopping while I explored for books, and I always came back with a stack. I still have my first library card, orange with a metal numbered plate attached to it, for swiping in a device similar to a manual credit card machine. I always helped myself in libraries, afraid to ask, and discovered books on my own, creeping slowly from the child's section into the adult, as I became a teen, self censoring as I went along. And my next favorite library is my own, when I still had a school age weekly story time (cancelled due to budget cuts).


If you haven't visited Terresa's blog before, I highly recommend it!

I wrote a post about libraries a few months ago. If you've never seen it, it gives you a good idea of what libraries are all about, why a person would want to become a librarian even in a time of budget cuts, and why we should let our elected officials know that we value our libraries and we want them to be fully funded.

A Poem and An Explanation: Kid-Like in Old Town

Kid-like in Old Town


Kid-like is watching orange moon rise
over sailboats bobbing in St. Augustine Bay
You and your family dancing on the walls
of the parapets of the Castillo de San Marcos
Waiting for the beam of the striped lighthouse’s
fresnel lens to flash, rotate, return
and light the white sails afore the Bridge of Lions

Kid-like is making giant puppet shadows
turn and leap on the fort’s coquina face
Raising arms, arching backs, stretching fingertips,
standing on toes, Staging a mock battle
between child monster and grownup fiend,
Laughing, pounding fists, and buckling knees
Capturing the show on digital home video

Kid-like is singing softly to the sky
harmonizing with the old man voice and
acoustic/electric guitar drifting from an outside bar
Thrilling to the thrum in the hollow of your throat
Feeling night breezes cool the sun’s warm embrace
tickle your cheek, riffle your hair, surprise your
chapped, eager lips with the wind’s brisk kiss

Kid-like is watching your son, just turned thirteen
playing in the Old Town multi-level playground
Traversing rope bridges and space shuttle challenges,
wearing Ramones T-shirt and Harley Davidson
leather cap, Swinging so high on the swingset
he catches tree branches with the cymbal clash of his feet
and you swing right with him, elated

Kid-like is sailing on the Schooner Freedom
leaning into the Matanzas River’s wave and chop
Challenging chilly gusts at 42 knots, Ears ringing from the
deck cannon’s return volley to the fort’s Spanish soldier
retired schoolteacher volunteer re-enactors, dressed in red
stockings, blue wool coats, and tri-cornered cockaded hats, firing
paper musket shot and cannonball loaves of Wonder Bread


© 2007, 2010 Annie King


I wrote the initial draft of this poem during a trip to St. Augustine with my husband and son. The poem is autobiographical, and largely, events occurred just as described. I wrote it thinking about a comment I'd made to a twenty-three year old man, that he was kid-like; and I wanted him to understand, what I said was not an insult, but a compliment.

You can read the poem in the post below in regular print, with photos my husband took that I cropped and edited. There were many other pictures, but I felt the ones I chose were both artistic and representative. I've re-printed the poem here in smaller print, because the lines are so long, and on a smaller computer screen, they get "chopped up."

Poem: Kid-Like in Old Town

Kid-like in Old Town

Kid-like is watching orange moon rise
over sailboats bobbing in St. Augustine Bay
You and your family dancing on the walls
of the parapets of the Castillo de San Marcos
Waiting for the beam of the striped lighthouse’s
fresnel lens to flash, rotate, return
and light the white sails afore the Bridge of Lions

Kid-like is making giant puppet shadows
turn and leap on the fort’s coquina face
Raising arms, arching backs, stretching fingertips,
standing on toes, Staging a mock battle
between child monster and grownup fiend,
Laughing, pounding fists, and buckling knees
Capturing the show on digital home video

Kid-like is singing softly to the sky
harmonizing with the old man voice and
acoustic/electric guitar drifting from an outside bar
Thrilling to the thrum in the hollow of your throat
Feeling night breezes cool the sun’s warm embrace
tickle your cheek, riffle your hair, surprise your
chapped, eager lips with the wind’s brisk kiss

Kid-like is watching your son, just turned thirteen
playing in the Old Town multi-level playground
Traversing rope bridges and space shuttle challenges,
wearing Ramones T-shirt and Harley Davidson
leather cap, Swinging so high on the swingset
he catches tree branches with the cymbal clash of his feet
and you swing right with him, elated

Kid-like is sailing on the Schooner Freedom
leaning into the Matanzas River’s wave and chop
Challenging chilly gusts at 42 knots, Ears ringing from the
deck cannon’s return volley to the fort’s Spanish soldier
retired schoolteacher volunteer re-enactors, dressed in red
stockings, blue wool coats, and tri-cornered cockaded hats, firing
paper musket shot and cannonball loaves of Wonder Bread


© 2007, 2010 Annie King

"Your doorstep is just a click away."

I love this song by John Ondrasik (Five for Fighting) from his newest album, Slice. This is the title song, and though it seems to be saying: blogs are bad, we can't possibly connect through them, and he asks the question, "Are we more than just a slice of American pie?," I like to think that, yes, just as he concludes, "We're more than just a Slice," and that we do join in, and sing a song. (Please bear with me- it all makes more sense, once you've actually heard the song!)




Here's a little piece of the lyrics, and I hope I'm not violating copyright law:

"Have you read my blog today
300 million little USA's
Your doorstep is just a click away
We'll get together one of these days
How can you be as nice as me
You're not from the same slice as me
Where do we go from here my friend
Is this the way our story ends"
~ John Ondrasik, from Slice

In the song, he talks about the fact that once there were no cell phones, no blogs; we had communion in the music we all listened to, and stood in line to hear, "swaying on a Saturday night." All true, and yet, I know, for a fact, I have met wonderful people through blogging, and if we can't meet in person, at least we have met. And since I can't live all over the USA and all over the world, there is communion in what we do here in this crazy place we call blogging. We have lost communion, in the way it used to be, but we have gained communion in a new way. "I can't stop singing along. Can you join in... Come on."

A couple more favorite lines from the song:

"People stood in line
to hear music that played into their lives
That you could carry till the day you die."
~ John Ondrasik, from Slice

We still hear music like that; it's just, we don't all listen to the same music. And we read words, poems and prose, we can carry with us till the day we die. It may be a smaller community, but it exists. Every time I think I'm going to leave it, this blogging world, I find support in it, and I give support, wherever I can. Hey, your doorstep really is just a click away. Sometimes you're not home, and I miss you, but life is like that. And sometimes, you are home, and we have a great time.

"It's Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood."

“It’s Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood.” The significance of that line sinks in after multiple re-reads of it within the text of Tom Campbell’s entertaining biker book: Badass: The Harley-Davidson Experience. Tom Campbell is a family man, a Harley owner and rider, a medical consultant, and a reluctant poet. You can read his prose and poetry on his blog, This is… the Life. Oh Yes it is. CABG is a recent favorite of mine, along with an entry about his trip to New Orleans.

Badass: The Harley-Davidson Experience is part advice book and part travelogue, chronicling Tom’s ride from his home in Sacramento, California to Sturgis, South Dakota for the annual biker rally. In the second half of the book, Tom expands his narrative style with longer entries and descriptive passages. One of my favorite sections is an entry that has nothing to do with motorcycle riding at all, but everything to do with life: If You Think Motorcycles Are Dangerous, ‘Tri’ a Triathlon! The writing is vivid, and you feel every scrape and bump and exhilarating moment along the way.

Finally, in the Epilogue, Tom admits he is more milquetoast than badass (as if the reader hasn’t figured it out!), and his confession is all the more endearing as he thanks his wife, in an earlier section, for her support. I believe he is more explorer, nature lover, and student of life than milquetoast, but we will leave that assessment up to Tom!

For the Fifty Plus Harley rider, anyone who has ever ridden or driven a motorcycle, and anyone who wants to take that special ride with Tom, you can follow his journey to happiness by reading Badass. If you order the book, it comes leather bound with hand-sewn hemp stitching, and Tom’s personal autograph. As the tale of one man’s journey, and the portrait of a good guy, the book is a joy to own. (But if your name is Billy, and you rode with Tom to Sturgis, or if you like both orange juice and milk with your morning coffee, don’t read this book!)

I bought Tom’s book for my husband and me for Christmas. You can read an excerpt at the official Badass site, and entertaining entries about Tom’s 2009 ride to Sturgis on his Biker Blog (sort of), Harley Davidson… And Associated Tales.

Profile Photographs

The other night, after going out shopping with my husband, and realizing I was wearing the perfect turquoise sweater to compliment my eyes, I decided to take photographs of myself for my "social networking site" profile photo. It's a recent account, opened mostly so I can monitor (unsuccessfully) my son's use of the site (in other words, once it starts, I can't stop his fifteen year old, taciturn personality from coming through, or I'll have to forbid the account!). I put on eye makeup to supplement my usual lipstick only, sat on my living room couch, and took multiple pictures of myself with my digital camera and its 10 second delay timer.

I can't say I regret taking these photographs. I know I am only pleasant plain. It's just, until you look in the mirror, you are all the ages you've ever been, and now, I can't get this image of this older self out of my brain. The lighting was harsh, and the one pleasant discovery- my face, as I like to tell myself- IS largely unlined, but the fullness of the face, and the droop of the cheeks is something I cannot hide. I've lost all hint of cheekbone (and there was ever only a hint, accentuated by sun tanned skin) and my pixie-ish angular chin. But hey, my hair is still a natural dark blonde (the color of my surrogate image here on my blog).

I reverted to a picture of myself from two years ago, cropped from a birthday photograph. I'm smiling like a chipmunk, but there's a little less jowl. Next session, I'll try taking photographs outside in natural light. I've posted two of the photographs I took in my profile album, one with glasses, and one without, but in thumbnail, those photographs expose my plainness, rather than reveal my personality. In thumbnail, my nose looks like an artichoke and my eyes look crossed. Or, maybe for me, it's the shock of seeing my blue eyes directed at the camera, when I haven't seen them in so long, my contact lenses abandoned when I had to switch to multifocal glasses, an unwelcome wall between me and the world.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Note: I originally wrote this post on January 12th, but numerous events intervened, before I could revise and publish it.

January 26th update: Now my profile photo is a picture of me, 23 years old, on my wedding day, but I'm sure it will change again. I've started creating albums, posting a selection of photographs from childhood and throughout my life. Maybe a combination of all the ages I've ever been, will begin to say who I am.

Does anyone else have trouble finding the perfect profile photo, for their blog or their "social networking site," trying to find a photograph that captures both image and personality?

Gratitude

Six X-rays later, before I even saw a doctor, and the diagnosis: contusion and sprain of the back, and sprain of the right knee. It's what I expected. What I was NOT hoping for was an ambulance chaser orthopedic "mill," but at least now I know for sure what I suspected all along; and now I know what to do about it: what I've been doing already, only with a stronger dose of anti-inflammatory, and the continuation of ice packs, which I'd suspended, thinking they'd done their good already. I didn't work today and I won't work tomorrow. The next scheduled day is Saturday. So, I'll use these next four days to take a breather, rest my leg and back, and do a modicum of simple household tasks. I'm grateful my unexpected fall resulted in little damage, and nothing that will last.

A Slip and a Fall

She slips as she steps into the shower- some shampoo, soap, or slime; and her left leg goes out, her right leg wrenched sideways, as her legs go forward and her fall is backward, so her lower back makes contact with the tiled step. She wonders when the hot water running over her legs will turn to scalding, so she takes a few seconds to assess, and finds her way, hands and knees, onto her feet, turns off the water, and steps out. More carefully, she steps back in, takes her shower, dresses, and starts her Saturday, shopping in a Home Depot for size 30 O-rings, 1/4" zinc coated washers, and hot pink nylon rope, followed by a trip to Michael's Arts and Crafts to get jump rings, and a trip to Joanne Fabrics to get five yards of 1/4" elastic, all in preparation for a Tween craft program Monday night. She'll be teaching kids to make "Hardware" jewelry. She gets to work, later than planned, after all the shopping, and walking, just a tweak in her leg, as she's traversing the stores and the parking lot; but then, getting out of the car, she notices, a distinct discomfort, a stiffness, and a pain, in her knee. She hobbles in the door, and hobbles to the Youth Services Reference Desk, taking her place, and immediately begins to help people, jumping up to show them where are the Star Wars graphic novels for kids, where is the book by so and so, six times she's up... until she can't walk anymore, apologizing to the patrons and her co-workers, and she hobbles off the desk. Ice packs are brought to her and ibuprofen. She leaves work early, her co-workers wheeling her out in the building's wheelchair, and they bring her a cane used as a prop in Drama Club productions, so when she gets home, she won't fall down as she makes her way from the car to the house, and she calls them when she's safely in the door. Has she been to a doctor yet? No, not yet, still assessing the damage, and the swelling in the knee, and the wrenched feeling in the back. Tomorrow is a Monday. If it's not better by morning, then she'll go.

Favorite Doggie

I wrote this comment in response to this post at The Puzzle Box:

When I was in my third year of college, I adopted a dog from a shelter. She was part terrier, part poodle, part who knows, with beautiful, silky/disheveled white fur, once I washed the 1,000 fleas out of it and her coat grew in after better nutrition. She startled, if hands came too close, too fast; but she loved to be petted, and responded wonderfully to affection. I think she was abused- hit and neglected, so I’m glad I found her and rescued her. She was a great dog, and a sweet friend, always ready to greet me with the equivalent of a smile (and she always tore up my room, missing me, when I was away to classes!)

She's Home

After settling my mother into her own bed, I'm sleeping on her couch tonight, happily. Finally, she was discharged from the hospital, and for the moment, things look good, though I'm cautioning her as if she were a child (and she's not, being fully capable mentally, and all), instructing her to call for me, or to blow the brass whistle on her bedside table, if she needs me in the middle of the night, for anything, but especially if she needs to get up, so one of us can always be with her as she moves from place to place, until she feels fully steady on her feet. She's maneuvering with a walker, but that's supposed to be short lived, so she doesn't grow dependent on it, impairing her sense of balance, and restricting the capacity of her fragile lungs. (Why a brass whistle, instead of a bell? We couldn't find one, but she can blow on the whistle to make a strong sound, and that's good.)

For everyone who wrote me with encouraging comments, or thought of her or me these days, thank you so much. Your support has been meaningful, and I appreciate your concern. After three solid weeks in the hospital or Rehab, with another long hospital stay in November, we are hoping she gets a reprieve from all that for a good while, though next it's Home Health, a visiting nurse and other services (with the emphasis on home!). Two of my brothers will be with her in the coming days, and then, my sister on the weekend, so soon, I will be back home, with all its attendant concerns. I think I'm going to put my house in better order, having been away from it before and after Christmas, and then the New Year (having been here, more than there, in the month of January).

I Like It When You Read Me

In my mother's bedroom, cascading upward in a diagonal over her bed, are three miniature still lifes I painted for her when I was twelve, the frames carefully painted in beige and deep forest green to accentuate the subjects, vases and flowers, copied after the masters. On the opposite wall hangs my city scape, executed in acrylics, with brush and palette knife, my favorite bluegreens vibrant and dominating. There was a time I thought I'd become an artist. My high school art teacher encouraged me, but drama classes took precedent, when both electives were scheduled during the same hours. There was a time I thought I'd become an actress, when actress was an acceptable form of the word, and I still don't understand when and why it was censured, and the word became actor for both sexes (and I consider myself a feminist). There was a time I thought I'd become a journalist, taking a class and writing a freelance article published in the community section of a major local newspaper. Perhaps, as a writer, I am all three.

Dribbles of Thoughts

Late night, eating Kale
(stale salad from Publix with
the cottage cheese mixed in)
craving kind words... more
than polished poems

My Mom, is doing better, for the moment. She may go home on Monday, but that may be ill advised. I have a brother who will stay with her, but I’m uncertain if he understands the current level of her need. Should she go to a Rehab Center again? Should she go home, with Home Health Care mixed in? It is all a temporary reprieve. Even she is saying to her oldest son: I bet I’ll be in the hospital six more times again in the coming year. None of us disagree. We can only nod and smile, and (inwardly) cringe. It was nice watching TV with her, laughing with some English comedy I’d never seen before. This time, she lucked out with the best in hospital accommodations (we have a private room, for the moment, with a vinyl couch plus two chairs, one for the patient and one for the visitor) in the “bone” section of the hospital, since her presenting problem was an injured shoulder, but it’s the COPD fluid build-up they are treating, almost as an afterthought, curious. If you don’t ask the doctor the right questions, they don’t think of the right treatment. Because I asked about the fluid build-up, and told this doctor, just filling in, about the sixteen days of antibiotic intravenous treatment, and the need to make sure the infection was clear, he decided to order a diuretic and make sure the fluid is gone, before she is discharged, even though X-rays show no current pneumonia. I forgot to ask about the steroid they are giving her, and the insulin to counteract it, even though she is not diabetic, and whether they will remember to wean her off it.

I've been alone at my mother's house today, back and forth the twelve miles to the hospital twice. Yesterday, also, it was mostly me. I'm glad to be here for the long weekend, before I get locked in to two more weeks of part-time work, including Saturdays, and I can't leave except for emergency. I'm the only one of my siblings with a school age child, and even though he's almost sixteen, he still needs me, I like to think. His Dad has been filling in. My husband and son will rejoin me, partly, tomorrow- actually, they get to go out and have fun- the Battle of Brooksville Civil War Re-enactment, if they don't get rained out (midnight and the rain is pouring, striking the windows and the roof- I love the sound!) I'll be at the hospital, worrying about the discharge plans, and enjoying being with my Mom, in any way we can.

Driving Under Duress

My mother was supposed to go home from the Rehab Center/Nursing Home this morning, if her chest X-ray and blood work was okay, confirming the sixteen days of the intravenous antibiotic treatment worked, and the pneumonia and fluid buildup in her lungs was gone. Instead, she forgives the aide at the Rehab Center who was supposed to be helping her in the bathroom, and let her fall to the tile floor anyway, in the middle of Wednesday night, so she hit her right shoulder and her side, and the emergency room doctor says she has a "minor" fracture and must wear a sling, and now she can't use a walker. X-rays confirm there is still fluid around her lungs, and she probably would have been back in the hospital anyway.

After leaving work, setting up a little at home, and gathering my things, I got in late last night- The hospitalization delay?- She'd refused to let them take her to the hospital in the morning, and my brother let that decision stand, until the Rehab Center's own X-ray results convinced her (and she had to do X-rays and blood work twice, both there and at the hospital), and perhaps a phone call earlier in the day from her daughter. S0, we all met at the hospital 9 o'clock last night, my mother in the ambulance and my brother following after, and we left her at eleven to get assigned to a room- she's used to that routine and showed no fear- making my brother walk me to my car, rather than let me stay with her.

I'll be visiting her this morning, as soon as I finish breakfast and take my turn in the shower. Last night, I slept in her home hospital bed (she needs to sleep sitting up, and one kind physical therapist got Medicare authorization for it well over a year ago). I would have been up here anyway, about mid-day, under brighter circumstances, getting Home Health Care set up, instead of another hospitalization, happy to sleep on her living room couch. I shouldn't be writing about this here, but sometimes you've just got to process and hope you've been heard, one advantage of being anonymous, and no one in my family reads my blog. And- as usual- my mother's spirits are largely good, which helps all of us to cope. I admire her for that.

Sun In Bed

"What the Sun Looks Like

When It's Asleep"

I found this illustration on a wonderful site called From Old Books. The book and the illustration are in the public domain. You can follow the link and read an excerpt from A Treasury of Verse for Little Children (Macmillan, c1923), edited by M. G. Edgar, and see another illustration by Willy Pogany.

This is the poem that goes with the illustration:

The Sunset Garden

I CAN see from the window a little brown house,
And the garden goes up to the top of the hill.
And the sun comes each day,
And slips down away
At the end of the garden an' sleeps there . . . until
The daylight comes climbing up over the hill.
I do wish I lived in the little brown house,
Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep
Up . . . up . . . then I'd stop.
An' lean over the top,
At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep.
And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep.

Marion St John Webb

Two Little Poems

Searching for a notepad, before calling the Rehab center, to address issues I just became aware of, I came across these two little poems I wrote in early November (when my Mom was in the hospital, too, and I was staying at her house with one of my brothers). I'm typing them now, to distract me from the problems at hand, waiting for a call back from the Center.


Sing Me That Song

When the home fires scorch
more than brighten, imagined
strangers with tree root hands
and full moon hearts, ladle
sustenance from round copper
kettles, and sweep clean the hearth.

(c) 2009 Annie King


Trail to the Lake

We saw cows this morning
and baby cows on the way
to the lake. "Now, if you don't
want to carry a big stick, just
clap your hands." The cows
moved for us, and we traveled
on beneath the bearded oaks,
sunrise starring over weed choked
water and galinules calling.

(c) 2009 Annie King

Hang Up and Random Thoughts

I just got an odd call with a hi and a hang up from a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. I answered immediately, wondering if the call, close to 9 pm, had anything to do with my mom. Who would say hi, and then hang up, unless they realized they had no idea what voice they'd reached? A voice in the night.

My husband's playing guitar, running through the songs he knows well, and the ones he is learning. It's good to hear that sound. If only he could sing! So, I rarely hear the words, just the music, and that's okay. The Christmas tree lights are lit, making the family room cozy. The air is chill. I'm wearing a sweater over my gown, and wool blend socks.

I'm tired/ sleepy today, still a bit numb, though in reality, my mom is okay, at least for right now. I showered late in the day, and made a decent dinner. Tomorrow, I'll try to get back into the routine. Saturday is work, and then all of next week. And then it's back to my Mom. I wish I could be there now, watching TV with her, and helping her with her nightgown before she falls asleep.

Ooh. Now, it's Green Day's The Time of Your Life on guitar, one of my all time favorites, and my husband's learned to play it pretty well. I once knew how to play it, the finger pattern for the intro, and all of the chords played ineptly. I don't know why I've given up guitar, except for time.

When my fingers were callused, I was alway itching to play. Now he's playing John Denver on his Taylor 814C, Rosewood and Spruce with the cutaway. My guitar is a Taylor 614C, the sides and tri-back in serious flame maple. I wrote a lovely, sensual poem about my guitar, and it embarasses me.

Trailing off. I think I can fall asleep. I'm planning a post about the music I listened to on my trip, and how good and necessary it was to substitute a song for the image of my mother lying in a hospital bed.