I’ve been searching for a name for this weblog – loudgirl is only temporary until I find something I really like.

I’m thinking of using “f.” Just the letter F. I kind of love that. I was also considering mF but I think I like F better.

• I found out our friend’s son’s new catering business is called “M.” So single letter names were on my mind.
• Then I was reading Kafka last night (therapeutically) and remembered he named a character K.
• Then I was writing about Fortissimo (loud) yesterday and remembered the musical symbol was F.
• It’s the first letter of my maiden name.
• And I can’t help it, I like the connotation of “F-word.”
• And it’s an interesting letter typographically. The shape of the musical symbol. The special connections of ligatures.
• And I like to write the F in the middle of Stamford with a big swooping curve like a river through the town.
• And it’s the key where the left index finger rests on the keyboard.
• And it’s a very small name to link, like a secret key.

Can’t think of any drawbacks, except the technical chore of changing the name.

I’ve got to go do some effing vacuuming.

Wandering around downtown Stamford this afternoon waiting for some kind of gift giving lightning to strike me…

I bought movie certificates for the kids. I don’t know if they’ll use them. Why wouldn’t they?

I made it over to Café Tango. My habit lately – to order a macchiato, even though it isn’t on the menu. It wasn’t. I ordered it anyway. Sometimes I get it for the price of an expresso. A knowledgeable coffee man came over and made one for me. It was fantastic. The espresso was so strong – that first taste is almost unbelievable if it’s made right. And the foamed milk floated ever so gently on top, barely swirled into the taste of espresso as I sipped. I’m crazy about them. I love the cunning tiny cup and the fact that it’s such a minimal indulgence.

Satisfying simultaneous desires to treat myself and deprive myself.

After finishing the few swallows, I went back out into the sunset-colored air. Wandered past the Palace Theater and decided to go in. I picked up the brochure and browsed it. The clerk asked if she could help, then she mentioned there were a few unadvertised shows coming up. Gift giving synchronicity struck, aha! Stephen Wright is coming in June! Not advertised yet! My son’s favorite comedian! So I bought two tickets, front row center. A little expensive, but it seemed so beautifully appropriate that I didn’t even want to resist.

Had me wondering what will be going on in June. I’ll take that as a small jolt of hope, fragrant and energizing.

It’s a relief to be here at home alone in the dark. Colored lights strung haphazardly over the doors and windows in the living room. Blue “icicle” lights strung on the windows behind me, reflecting, still and innumerable, on every glass surface in front of me–computer screens, dining room windows, my glasses if I look out the corner of my eye. The surface of this desk retains cold. It seeps into my forearms as they rest on the surface, until I have to go put on a down jacket to continue typing.

I have a feeling of being on hold. A held breath before the coming week, the coming year.

I have a feeling of incapacity. I’m not equal to The Darkest. I’m a lighter shade of pale. I’m no more than mere. My reverence is skimpy and diminished. I didn’t play my best for him, I can’t. I don’t know what that is. (Why do I imagine the Ideal demands so much of me?)

Isolation, in-soul-ation, depth perception. We’re not friendly here. Generosity and hospitality are enshrined on distant mountains, a long trek. Here we sing alone beside the twinkling ice-blue crevasse, invisible in the neighborhood, here without a campfire.

Today I made a connection between the poetry manuscript I’m working on and Bridget Jones’s Diary. I’m not kidding.

So I express myself a little differently. I mix up the man with the divine. I sprinkle a few Sanskrit words around, dabble in philosophy, babble incoherently at times.

It’s still the same basic idea. Why shouldn’t it appeal to the same audience?

Not that I think it should or it will. It’s just interesting to wonder what it is that draws people toward conventional “lite” styles. There’s a curse or a miasma of some kind settled around poetry. A poison mist. “I, too, dislike it.”*

I don’t want to blame this on anything or even to figure it out. I’d like to come up with some far fetched explanation. I’d like to trace some course of evolution toward a future of new forms. Disappearance of the diary, emergence of illustrated poetry, convergence of hysterical prose poems and romantic fiction, explosive mixtures of the sacred and profane in liturgy, who knows what else.

Part of what I like about prose poems is the removal of the barrier of line breaks. The poem becomes more accessible to the non-reader of poetry. WHY why why should line breaks be threatening. I don’t know, but they are. I’m telling you, they are!

I think it was Lehman’s introduction to Great American Prose Poems that discussed this, talking about the non-threatening quality of the innocuous paragraph. Unfortunately, I’ve brought that book back to the library, so I can’t look it up to quote the exact statement.

I guess I really ought to own that book. But I’m not in love with it. Forget it!

______________________
*Marianne Moore, “Poetry”

Aquarius, I hope you’ll decide to make the fungus your good luck charm in 2004. It will remind you to hold in high esteem the hidden forces and unsung people that will be constantly working behind the scenes in your behalf. This will be the Year of Secret Helpers.

from free will astrology

I just dug a hole in my upper backyard. It’s about two feet deep. It’s for the cat. Cremation costs $180 for an individual and $105 for a communal. Very very odd, the pet cremation business. The man that I spoke with at the pet crematory was stereotypically unctuous. He consoled me for my loss and asked if I wanted an urn. I didn’t try to explain that I was feeling buoyant and relieved. I just said I was hoping to spend a lot less money and said goodbye.

There’s a lot of trash buried in my upper backyard. Rusty flattened cans and broken glassware. I pulled out one small bottle in perfect shape except for the rusted screw top. The inside was coated with the dregs of a white powder suspension. There are letters on the bottle, but I’ll let my son try to decipher them.

As far as the cat, I am tremendously thankful to her little spirit for leaving us so swiftly and sweetly. And with beautiful timing, just before the solstice.

Such a beautiful song! I am so glad to be in the choir. The performance itself is not the best part. I love best to listen to all the singing during rehearsals. I even like to hear myself sing while practicing at home. It feels good to breathe and support the voice with the breath.

Complex few days here. Complex patterns, events, shifts, insights. I drew the Sun card. That is rare for me. Enough love and light for everyone and a beautiful message close to the solstice.

I wrote down all my recurring Fantasies in my journal last night. A few times I struggled to note the Realities associated with them as well. Bending towards the light of Reality. Someone today said that Frustration is a symptom of not accepting reality. Okay, I can accept that.