I was moving a bunch of Jackson's baby photos from one digital archive to another when I found this, taken in the fall of 2001 on one of those walks we used to go on at the end of the day when he was cranky. He'd bob along in his baby backpack and I'd take pictures. I was a little depressed at the time, having just lost my job, and having barely any idea of what to do with a tiny person all day. But we survived. Flourished, even, after a fashion.
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I hooked up my record player this morning, finally, after two years of watching it gather a half-inch-thick layer of dust. You think I'm kidding. We rearranged the furniture before the Nut was born and it left the turntable miles away from the rest of the stereo equipment, so it was just sitting there mute until this morning. I didn't even knock the dust off before I had to put on a record, and I ended up choosing the last one I bought before making the commitment to CDs, which is how I know that this difficult changeover occurred in the winter of 1988, soon after Tower cleared out all their record bins and I knew I had to make a choice between becoming a crank who also refused to give up her typewriter or being a person who embraced new technology as soon as it became affordable.
So I sat and listened to a bit of Billy Bragg's 1988 album "Worker's Playtime," and I enjoyed my little dose of self-pitying romantic lefty British pop, even though the record skipped in one place and I had to pick up the needle and gently put it back down in what I hoped was the next groove over so as not to miss too much of the song, and the Nut napped and dreamed and woke up, and life went on in its life-y way. As it will do.
Who do I have to bl -- er, KNOW to get the comments link to work? I am totally thinking of applying for editorial work at this place, even though moving to L.A. is pretty much out of the question. But that fits in nicely with my pretending-to-try-to-find-a-job M.O.
Going to Palm Springs tomorrow to visit Jack's mom, who is recovering from pneumonia. She got kind of choked up on the phone when he told her we were coming, so we're hoping that a dose of The Peanut will cure her completely.
Edward Dorn is a damned good poet. If you can find a copy of his "Gunslinger," buy it.
The cowboy stands beneath
a brick-orange moon. The top
of his oblong head is blue, the sheath
of his hips
In the dark brown night
your delicate cowboy stands quite still.
His plain hands are crossed.
His wrists are embossed white.
In the background night is a house,
has a blue chimney top,
Yi Yi, the cowboy's eyes
are blue. The top of the sky