Thursday, April 7, 2011


It floors me the number of people who come to the Library and have nothing to do with the books. (In his defense, the guy whose legs and laptop are in this picture came after I took it and asked for help finding a book... How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional World. Yes - he was a nerd, to the extent that I could have guessed what genre of book he would ask for before he asked.)
On a cold and clammy day in early Spring, where will you find me but sitting outside a cafe writing poetry about how the grey sky accents the greening trees? I love the symbolism of transformation.
My Moonlit Knits label bag that I drag everywhere and stuff everything into. (Current inventory includes a Bible, 2 notebooks, Radical, Valley of Vision, 3 Sharpies, a camera, waterproof military paper and pepper spray - not a complete list, but some of the more unusual things.)
One of my favorite poets is JRR Tolkien, and one of my favorite poems of his goes thusly:
The road goes ever on and on,
over rock and under tree,
by cave where never sun hath shone,
by stream that never finds the sea;
Over snow by winter sown
and through the merry flowers of June,
over grass and over stone
and under mountains in the moon.
The road goes ever on and on,
under cloud and under star,
yet feet that wandering have gone,
turn at last to home afar;
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone,
look at last on meadows green,
on trees and hills they long have known.
On the first of April every year, Casey the Code Monkey and Mama Rav assign every Raveler a random hat. Last year I had a cowboy hat. This year 'twas a propeller beanie, and I changed my Ravatar to a completely appropriate picture of Spock (because he totally would have worn a propeller beanie as a little Vulcan child, right?)
The Farmer's Market started up Saturday, and this poor pooch wanted to join all the people and dogs that were using the sidewalk in front of his house. Sadly, all he could manage was a sniff and a wag.
National Poetry Month inspires me - sometimes to originality, but sometimes to jot the first page of my favorite epic poem on my coffee cup. (Beowulf. I have the first few pages memorized - not because I tried, but because I've read it so much. And then phrases like "worda ond worca" [what's said and what's done, referring to what a man is judged by] also stick out to me.)
The Greek word poema is translated literally as "workmanship." I love that, because effort does go into the writing of poetry --- and because everything that's God's workmanship is a poem written by His hand.

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