Language and love

Went to see Diane Ackerman Wednesday night as a part of the week-plus-long celebration of writing and literature, the Fox Cities Book Festival . Her book One Hundred Names for Love describes the journey of healing after her husband, the writer Paul West, suffered a stroke that left him with aphasia -- a particularly cruel fate for these lovers of language.

When therapy wasn't getting anywhere Ackerman reviewed his workbook problems: Can a bowl swim? Can pearls fly? Questions designed for the literal mind. So she took over his therapy. Among the challenges she posed to West, who lamented that he couldn't remember any of the pet names he had made up for her: Make up new ones. He did, every day for a hundred days.

More moderation

Cleaned out my truck since it was starting to resemble the vehicular version of Grey Gardens. Things falling out of open doors and such. Among empty water bottles and mapquest directions, a happy meal box or two. My not-so-secret shame. But really, better than a supersized monstrosity, and hey, you get apples*. Plus the fries come in an envelope that could barely contain a hotel key card. And then there's the toy. I always ask for the boy's toys since the girl toys are stupid. Then I save them and use them for stocking stuffers. One less thing to shop for.


*chemically enhanced

Thought I was kidding?

Thrift stop

Wanted to get out of my dark little office for lunch so took a drive to St. Vinny's thrift store, a sometimes-favorite treasure hunting haunt. The parking lot was full, on a Monday, not a bag sale day or anything like that. This and yet another stock market drop shows things aren't all sunshine just yet. Families and couples picked through the bargains looking for clothes and home goods. I pushed through hangers of t-shirts, looking for quirkiness. One purple t-shirt held possibilities: U.S. Olympic Training Center, it said.

Warehouse of broken dreams.

Anti-social media

Was trying to read a story online when the "Share!" box popped up, giving me a dozen or so options for sending the thing through social media. Plus 322 more options not showing in the box. Really? And I couldn't get rid of the damn thing. I couldn't read the story because the box was in the way. I'm all for sharing (or else I wouldn't be blogging) but everything in moderation. I don't always want to frigging share the frigging story with every frigging person on the frigging planet. Sometimes I just want to read.

Dark road

Darkness surrounds me, waiting to devour. Hard to navigate that narrow road of light.

Change

It's scarves one day and sandals the next. We watch carefully for firsts: first robins, first sandhill cranes, first dandelions. We make our own to celebrate: first t-shirt day, first driving-without-shoes day, first hang-your-laundry-on-the-line day. Last night, first storm. We watch and enjoy but know that maybe these things are coming a little too early, the storms coming on a little too strong.

Not exactly Chicago

Where I spent the weekend of AWP, which for the first time closed registration because there are so many writers out there who want to write better or at least hobnob with other writers. So I did the next best thing -- I spent the weekend writing. Instead of 10,000 writers I had dead animals for company. Black bear, couple of deer heads, a jackalope, game fowl and one crazed-looking fox. Whoever stuffed the fox set the front paws up on a piece of wood so it looks like it's standing at a podium, running a meeting of evil genius foxes. Not exactly like watching Margaret Atwood give the keynote, but I'll take what I can get.