I guess I need to get used to the whole blog thing. Right now it still feels self-indulgent--who would want to read this? I suppose I should get over that, seeing as I'm a writer, and its a question I've often asked myself before (and discounted as unimportant).

(Dog break: Toby and Bel are playing tug of war with one of my favorite shoes. When I called out Toby, NO! he looked quite surprised.)

Anyway, not a day I can report anything of interest on. Its spring here in NM which is lovely--in the 70's today, and I had a good dinner at a new Japanese restaurant. But the place was more expensive than I expected, and I stressed about the cost, then my BF (who makes twice as much money as me) made a big deal out of the price (though we split the bill), and then went on to say how he was sick of paying for everything. which is a reflection on his previous women, not me, and I was in the odd position of both thinking, well, I've never asked you to pay my way, asshole, and then at the same time thinking: so why'd you pay for all of them and not me?

Ugh. I hate arguing about money, so I just left. Ruined my quite good dinner, I must say. But I did take some very good sushi home and feed it to my fox-dogs--since they're Japanese and all--and they liked it. And Kai, my german shepherd, had a piece too.

Well, I don't know if I'll always put a poem up with each entry, but here's another--this one from book #2 (In an Angry Season). I wrote this long before I ever dreamed of BPAL....

The Alchemist's Assistant

Lovely as the native birds that fly overhead unseen,

the alchemist’s assistant feeds him corn gruel

and chilies, sweeps the pitiful grate. Sings

in her primitive way. Gathers

the base stones, silent as severed tongues,

which the alchemist cannot force into gold.

In the windowless tower, the workshop is frigid

with his frustration, dumb with his dogged

desire. He has grown old here and still

the stones refuse to yield. He mutters incantations

and spells, pale eyes unfocused, while around him

the world is littered with substances precious

and rare: the assistant’s skin--copper ore, her black

pearl eyes, and outside the lapis sky and cinnamon

hills. The myrrh-thick garden between her thighs.

He caresses the stones as another man

would her breasts. In his dreams, she rides him

like a nightmare, a vortex his secrets

are sucked into. Her hands roam over

his parchment skin and she plucks

at his power like a string. And laughs.

She treats him like an arrogant child--

with his foreign formulas, his old world

computations, his numerical desires.

He’s stubborn and inert as stone.

Tucked away in his tower

of useless words, he withers.

But the alchemist’s assistant leaves

the workshop every day. She gathers the stones

by calling their names--clicks of her tongue,

syllables of silver, turquoise and jade.

They flock to her and sing

their stories. For her, the stones unlock

their shy mysteries and shine. For her,

mistress of the new world.