paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary

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what grows as a gift

I�m reading the poetry of Kathy Fagan right now. So far, I like it -- unexpected, unusual, but not to the point that it becomes unmeaningful.

I associate summers with reading. Maybe it comes from the training of thinking about the school year. Working at a university, that rhythm gets reinforced each year. That, and the summer heat drains me. I feel free to read. Summer seems like a time to look out, to watch and observe. During the winter (my favorite season) the world slows down, people slow down and conserve their energy, thoughts, and even their affection. A time to turn inward. i've never wondered why january is the best month in these parts to make new year's resolutions. When it gets this hot, I keep longing for sitting by a fire, sipping port, eating roasted vegetables, and wearing a cable knit sweater. When everything feels so cold and crunchy, and the wind does not hold back its force, I want to write. Something seems to grab hold during winter -- clocks tick louder, the wide variety of colors in the world become subtler and less extreme so that a misplaced purple glove seems magical and mysterious.

But now the summer chokes and stifles, in the distance yesterday�s thunderstorms still rumble, and the air does not refresh. Only air conditioning saves me during these months. Well, air conditioning and the wonderful process of watching the gardens become gaudy. A couple days ago I noticed the most shocking neon orange flower standing upright by a large clump of pampas grass. The plant had never before chosen to flower � I thought it was some form of spike grass. But clearly it had another idea. A perfectly fancy garden flower, perfectly formed cone-shaped bloom made of stacks of little peddles, not unlike a more brilliant and delicate pine cone. I read great encouragement into this one flower and am certain it grows as a gift.

I enjoy reading without class assignments. Not that I have ever completely bemoaned the reading load of graduate classes in English, but it is freeing not to get ahead for the next semester. For the time being, I read without a goal beyond the act of reading � appreciating the wonderful mixture of style, substance and vision great writers can muster. I love reading and not having worry about whether I will ever be a great writer or will ever have my shot at mustering a mixture of style, substance and vision.

Yesterday, Quinn went to her family reunion and I read most of the day on the couch. A semester�s worth of magazines overflowing the dining room table and finally I take one at a time and read through it. I think � oh, I want to see that movie (here and gone), oh I should remember to rent that movie (my list is upstairs). Yet I believe that if I just keep dumping it into my brain somehow it will amount to at least a hill of beans or something equally as concrete and musical.

Then I made Quinn a mixed-cd because I felt lonely. I am perfectly despicable � a free day to cherish and covet and I miss the (small but mighty) Quinn? Always defying the expectations�.

(and I think she liked the cd � at least she played it twice while giving me the full rundown of her family gathering.)

8:55 p.m. - 2003-06-23

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