Dear Offspring;
A challenging day. We got stuck with doing 8 extra rewrites because the internet is down in Idaho due to snowstorms. So we had to turn down a steak dinner with the Varkavissers – a couple from Rhodesia who wanted to take us out because of the many meals we’ve shared with them. (2:57 p.m. ~ This just in: the internet is up and running again in Idaho, thank goodness!)
Your mother continues to create more wonderful cookies. Today she glued together raisin/oatmeal cookies with a sweet cream cheese fluff – and they are to die for. When people come to our door now, it’s not for the food but for Amy’s cookies. I’m thinking we can dispense with the meals entirely and just do cookies and sweets.
We stopped at the Post Office after swimming this morning so I could pick up some postcards. I stopped mailing them pretty much back in October after marrying your mother again. There just didn’t seem to be the time or the money for it. But now I’m ready to print out my obscure thoughts on cheap cardstock again. So moi bought all the postcards they had and got a sheet of 20 postcard stamps as well. I’ve put haiku on four of them today so far and mailed them to Pres. Biden, and several journalist friends – whose home address I have. It does no good to mail anything to a reporter at their newspaper, since they are never going back into their offices again. Apparently.
Maybe I’ll get good at haiku if I live another 20 years and keep writing it.
In the meantime I have nothing more on my mind today than sharing my haiku with you offshoots, with whatever commentary/explanation comes to my feeble mind. Here goes:
most things don't happen --
if they do happen, they're wind --
moving clouds away.
Your mother has the marvelous ability of not worrying about the future, because of her absolute faith in Heavenly Father. I, on the other hand, worry about everything and project future catastrophes by the dozen each day. I am trying to learn to turn off the siren that is constantly blaring in my head, warning of danger ahead, and just live quietly and accept what comes next. Which is a pretty Zen concept. So I’d like to believe that . . . most things don’t happen.
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sunlight on the wall --
it's trying to be yellow;
but not all that hard
Sunlight in winter is like cold white cream. In summer it’s molten silver. Our apartment walls are yellow – the sunlight doesn’t do anything to it that I can tell. It’s just a poetic conceit. Nothing more. Although I admit that early morning sunlight and then twilight can affect me deeply. In the morning I am always created anew, and as the night approaches I have to fight to keep from despairing over the dead weeds in the patio. Us artists are too flibberty-gibbet to stand!
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Crows on a streetlight --
Lords of all bloodied roadkill;
offer them french fries.
Those long dusty rutted country roads in North Dakota . . .
Lined with wheat and sunflowers.
I remember those roads like my own children. They spoke to me. Though I never really understood what they said. But there were always crows on the telephone wires and on streetlights, or stooping over something flat and grisly in the road. And I’m going to try to convince your mother this evening when we go back to the Rec Center to stop at McDonalds so I can get a big order of french fries. I lust for them right now. Have been lusting for them for weeks.
Okay. Amy has started to do up the dishes so I must join her with the drying.
Roses are red/violets repine/I always get stuck/for a last line.
Love,
Heinie Manush.
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