Photo tagged...

I've been bad about posting lately, so apologies are in order. I've been busy a) losing my job and b) getting sucked into Facebook.

And no, a) is not a function of b).

I'm being "restructured" onto the street at the end of this month, and as abysmal as that sounds, I'm actually looking at it as an opportunity to strike out on my own and do some freelancing. And get my life back -- probably for a little longer than I need to in this economy, but we'll see. So if anybody needs any questionnaires, tech writing, editing, or desktop publishing done, I'm your girl. So to speak.

And Facebook? Biggest time sink since, well, blogging. Someone from high school recently started a group from our class, and it's been a hoot reconnecting with all these folks, seeing who/what we've all become. But keeping up with thirty or so new friends ain't easy, folks! And obviously takes away from my blogging (and sewing!) time. I'd say I'll do better with the balance, but I think I'll have a lot of time on my hands in the near future, so I'll figure it out then. In the meantime...a non-quilty post to tide you all over:

I got tagged a while back, and I'm just getting around to responding. I'm not big on tagging, but I thought I'd give this one a go and see what popped up. Pick your lucky number, go to your photo file, pick that number folder, and pick that numbered picture from the folder contents. Turns out it's a much-loved picture of my late buddy Gershwin, who usually liked the camera's intrusion -- unless it was rousing him from a nap. Then he'd get this expression on his face that made me think that if he were human, he'd have the voice and delivery of Tommy Lee Jones, saying something like "Whaddya think you're doing, dumbass?"

Anyway, this picture always makes me think of this Weldon Kees poem. Enjoy.



Colloquy

In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for cover
To pick the cat's brains and descend
A weedy hill. I found him groveling
Inside the summerhouse, a shadowed bulge,
Furred and somnolent.—"I bring,"
I said, "besides this dish of liver, and an edge
Of cheese, the customary torments,
And the usual wonder why we live
At all, and why the world thins out and perishes
As it has done for me, sieved
As I am toward silences. Where
Are we now? Do we know anything?"
—Now, on another night, his look endures.
"Give me the dish," he said.
I had his answer, wise as yours.

--Weldon Kees