BLAZE

24601!

Life is good. The sun is warm. Small fruit are in season.

Have you heard about produce co-ops? Such an anti-millennium concept, communalism. But it's intriguing. Of course, I have trouble keeping up with my own garden; I don't need to pay someone for the trouble of delivering compost-to-be to my door each week.

I enjoy reading other blogs. The other day I stumbled across an interesting one (while looking for the lyrics to the Nina Hagen song "Smack Jack," incidentally), called cowpunkmom. It was a series of recollections from someone who sounds to be about my age. Unfortunately, it hasn't been updated since May, so perhaps she's done remembering. Too bad. I also enjoy one written by a woman named Hillary from California. She's into cats, poetry, and crafting. Yes I know that sounds rather dull, but she's an appealing writer. And on and on.

Sometimes I think we write only to remind ourselves that we have voices. (Other than the ones in our heads, of course.)

Today I like: Dim sum. Gaudeamus igitur iuvenes dum sumus. Pretending I'm 37. Things that bump and snuffle.

Today I dislike Evasion! Confusion! Repression! Fitting-room mirrors. Inglewood Second Cup on weekend nights. Long-distance plans.

Now reading: Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. Firewing by Kenneth Oppel. Start Where You Are by Pema Chodron. Lots of textbooks for potential adoption.

Enough enough enough. Something inspiring though tardy.

Bread and Roses (c. 1910)

As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!

Revolutionarily,
Leslie

PS: Happy birthday, Dad! (not that he's reading) on July 25.