tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18883742905216310232024-02-19T22:46:36.938-08:00Barkinglips:experiments in thinkingLinda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-52701974169116242712017-05-20T11:06:00.001-07:002017-05-20T11:06:26.817-07:00 I AM WAITING TO BE A CHILD AGAIN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to be a child again<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to know if it is possible to be</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a child when
you’re old</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to find out just what it is about</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
children that I want to be again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to know if being old is or isn’t</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
another
part of being a child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to eat the things I loved as a child <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting for rice pudding and corn on the cob </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and porkchops on Sundays</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to swallow carefully, the way I did</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as a
child <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
to feel the food going down <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to be told, don’t talk </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with your mouth full<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to write with my mouth full<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to sign my name to whatever document I </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
have
to sign <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
to be a child again<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to be stricken with the diseases </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of old age<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to know if they are better or worse </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
than
measles, mumps and broken arms</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to be the parent to my own childhood </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to be the child to my own parenting </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to explore what lies beneath </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the vantage
point of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
seven decades done with and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to see what the view from the top is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
because maybe childhood was the bottom?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to find out if childhood was the top<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to wear no shoes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to wipe my nose on my sleeve<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to scribble drawings on the wall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to sing made-up songs <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to lie in bed and not nap </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
watch the
curtains move<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting for the leaping zebras and tigers to </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
jump
over my bed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to play hopscotch and jump rope again </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and do
them well<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>instead of always losing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am waiting to see my old friends and </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
put my right foot
in and turn it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turn it all about, turn it all about. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Geneva; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>~ </b><i>March 26, 2013 to use anaphora</i></span><!--EndFragment-->
</div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-30345621711303423232015-06-10T11:07:00.004-07:002015-06-10T11:10:47.909-07:00What I'll Write On <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> What
I’ll Write On . . . If I Lack
Paper <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta";"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">March 2015</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of parchment, I’ll
write on lace, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of bark, I’ll write on dog
hair, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of felt, I’ll write on
feathers,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of silk, I’ll write on stones, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of rust, I’ll write on brick,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of books, I’ll write on
roads, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of chamois, I’ll
write on fences, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of
blackboards, I’ll write on walls, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of
papyrus, I’ll write on bamboo,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack
of skin, I’ll write on shadows,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack
of vellum, I’ll write on leaves, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of
clay, I’ll write on windows,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of plastic,
I’ll write on water, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of glass, I’ll write on
reflections, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of lead, I’ll write on silver, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -4.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of tombstones, I’ll write on dust,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -4.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> For lack of bone, I’ll write on
porcelain, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of hide,
I’ll write on rags, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of veneer, I’ll write
on wax,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Fo</span>r lack of ivory, I’ll write on
eggshell, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of slate, I’ll write on
whiteboard,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of cream, I’ll write on dusk,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For lack of sand, I’ll write
on sky,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bodoni SvtyTwo ITC TT-BookIta';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> For lack of you, I’ll
write on me.</span></span> </div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-54909695040166955752014-07-10T09:27:00.000-07:002014-07-10T09:59:14.667-07:00 POLE VAULT <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of two closets in my NYC apartment, the tiny one was for
coats, boots, television, and tool box). The other was for clothes, and was
five feet wide by 18” deep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anything
needing a hanger went in that closet, on a thin wire hanger. My left bicep was
notably stronger because I shoved loaded hangers to the left when fitting in
another item.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reading
one night, I heard a muffled sound of slope collapse. Although ongoing
demolition next door had come within two bricks of my inside wall, it was
midnight. The thick pine closet pole, sturdy enough for fifty pounds of
clothes, had given up. Again! Last warning! One end had gouged a track down the
left wall, the other slumped on the floor. The clothes, still on hangers, had
folded themselves as the pole went down, and cowered on my shoes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
next day, I put anything that wasn’t black, gray, off-white or beige (no matter
how much I loved it or its colors -- turquoise, crimson, marigold, vintage
prints, equable plaids), into garbage bags and lugged them to a thrift
store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
tried to fit the weight-warped pole back into its socket hardware. But it was
now too short. I got my tool box from the other closet, unscrewed one socket,
shimmed it with cardboard, and screwed it back with longer screws. I hung up my
austere black, gray, white and beige clothes. They were patient -- there was
plenty of room. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-66593948236314480312012-04-23T11:36:00.000-07:002012-04-23T12:31:34.095-07:00 USEFUL PERSON OF THE REALM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<br />
She looked at her watch to see time move. Soon it would be time to defend her status as a UP – Useful Person of the Realm. She looked in the mirror and smoothed her gray hair. THAT would count against her. Old gray mare.<br />
The five Realm Masters sat at a long polished table, the dim sun from the windows caught no dust motes, made no shine on the clean floor. Work of time and other Useful Persons – the dulling and the polishing.<br />
“What have you to say for yourself?” the Master in the Middle asked her.<br />
“Ipickupbrokenglassintheriver,andnailsintheroad.” She had practiced saying it in the mirror. But she said it too fast. <br />
“Don’t speak so fast, you waste our time by having to repeat yourself. Don’t speak slowly either,” said the Master on the far right. <br />
“I pick up broken glass in the river, and nails in the road, your honor.<br />
“What are you paid for that?”<br />
“A week-old poppyseed bun, every other day, your honor.”<br />
“Hah!” said the Master on the left. “I don’t know as I’d think that was worth it, just to be alive.”<br />
She smiled at him. “Oh, some of the glass is very pretty!”<br />
“And I suppose you’d say that the nails might cause injury.”<br />
“Yes,” she said eagerly. Might this Master be sympathetic?<br />
“Except for the fact, Person, that no-one has tires and no-one has bare feet, except for Useful – and UNuseful – Persons. Expendable, and I rather like making bread pudding with the stale buns. Add eggs, milk, raisins and sugar.”<br />
She caught the drool that started down the side of her mouth. Eggs, milk, raisins. Sugar!<br />
She waited.<br />
The Masters huddled toward the center. They appeared to be conferring, but she could hear them saying “Raspberry raspberry raspberry,” just like crowds on the stage. Finally the Master in the Middle spoke. <br />
“Carry on, then, but try to find something more useful before your next hearing.”<br />
“Thank you, Masters of the Realm.” She backed away, careful not to scuff the floor. Maybe she should crawl out, with her knees under her skirts polishing the wood as she went. Maybe she should catch that wasp that had somehow found its way into the Hall of the Realm, and would sting someone. She thought it might be worth another bun, today perhaps. She reached out and caught the wasp. She felt it vibrating, preparing to stab her hand.<br />
“What is that you are trying to take away from the Great Hall?” asked one of the Masters.<br />
“A wasp, your honor, a wasp that might have stung one of you.”<br />
“That wasp, you silly Useless Person, is my particular favorite wasp of all the wasps in the realm. I have trained it to fly about and look fanciful.” <br />
The Master stood up behind the table. He was just barely taller than the table itself. He shouted at her, “Let the Wasp of the Realm go free!”<br />
She opened her swelling hand. The Wasp of the Realm, drunk on her useful blood, spread his wings and flew away. She was able to bow and get out of the door and get back out to the street before collapsing. She could see a nail just inches from her face; if only she could just reach out and get it.</div>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-49965392869120414512011-10-24T14:56:00.000-07:002012-02-17T10:26:07.149-08:00Memorium to Brown Dogs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecAW0TuKPiLHgYm1dTh1HffnwM4QVDawlSwZNU3pYvT2W_P5Ybk2eGro0vTaS8cN2Xx_sjAB7Z0sS3NKM8WS2ETNDntfkLZD85EooJTuSX-77LmT5lKKtouY0mbPOHpud0Er_02e6zXaj/s1600/PA240129.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecAW0TuKPiLHgYm1dTh1HffnwM4QVDawlSwZNU3pYvT2W_P5Ybk2eGro0vTaS8cN2Xx_sjAB7Z0sS3NKM8WS2ETNDntfkLZD85EooJTuSX-77LmT5lKKtouY0mbPOHpud0Er_02e6zXaj/s320/PA240129.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667184425854219090" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br />Everywhere<br />Brown dogs<br /> Mix. Mix, match<br />Brown to brown -- <br />Hair and hair, generations of bones and dust, <br />All the dogs in the world<br />Mix, match, mix<br />Until they are all brown.<br /><br />What love they bring.<br />And what love we have for them.<br />Rejoice for every happy dog, <br /> Smile.<br />Mourn for every unloved dog,<br /> Cry.<br />And please, God, bless their souls.<br /><br />All those dogs, brown,<br />Black, white, tan, gray, blonde, red, <br />Speckled, dappled, brindled, spotted <br />Dressed up with white chins and feet,<br /> Shoulders strewn with ruffs of black,<br /> Withers stroked with fingers of platinum,<br /> Tails fringed and tipped in white, <br /> Eyebrows fooling with spots of brown; <br />Eyes of gray, blue, brown, amber, gold, and black, <br /> fogged cataract eyes, <br /> car-struck sockets sewn shut over beauty.<br />Flesh, blood, bone and sinew, nerve and instinct.<br />Match, mix. Mix our<br />Memories of our brown dogs. <br />God bless their souls.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-80955848779468799402011-08-19T14:37:00.000-07:002011-10-25T12:27:31.981-07:00Auburn Blood<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dBU66NAYsRUWbCrSXKb8VyQxQK4wZhXXPETaqPNswIgG-oowyoHUoTHNUm65peZuJpoZN2vKC8hPikXcTdIbKisOSZqkkP26I1aNqaHIncWzfSrFIsgBl90Dp-r0pvdUa8ah6A2OR0ZV/s1600/blood+stained+green+pillow+P6060184.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dBU66NAYsRUWbCrSXKb8VyQxQK4wZhXXPETaqPNswIgG-oowyoHUoTHNUm65peZuJpoZN2vKC8hPikXcTdIbKisOSZqkkP26I1aNqaHIncWzfSrFIsgBl90Dp-r0pvdUa8ah6A2OR0ZV/s320/blood+stained+green+pillow+P6060184.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642687439829074498" /></a><br /> I keep sleeping on my blood-stained pillowcase. Even the pillow inside I have not tossed away – even that I have kept because the blood is from the worst injury I have had in years (knock on something), and it was to my head. I have slept on the historical pillowcase for 47 nights. <br /> Just before I turn the light off I look again at the stains and smears, drops, and suggestive smudges on the pale green pillowcase. Secretly, I am glad that the pillowcase my head rested on that first night is pale green. <br /> I looked this morning at the pillowcase. The place on my head still hurts a little and there is a bump, but the last bit of blood leaked out over three weeks ago from where the scab had clung, even as tiny hairs tried to grow through it.<br /> This morning it is time again to dye my hair. It was due about the time I fell on the asphalt. <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">Miss Linda, I gotcha, I’m not gonna <br /> leave, Miss Linda,”</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">said a stranger named Sonny<span style="font-style:italic;">, </span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">who held my hand until the ambulance came.</span> <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> I could hear my friend behind me say to 911 </span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">"There is so much blood,</span> <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">there’s blood all over.”</span> <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">Sonny said, “Don’t worry, Miss Linda,</span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">I ain’t goin’ nowhere, I gotcha.” </span><br /> As the gurney rose into the air, I looked at the asphalt. There’s blood all over, so much blood. <br /> My head was cauterized and glued after hair was cut off. Now it is healed and the glue has come out and the scabs have come off, and my hair was cut last week. I'll dye it redbrown -- one auburn or another – whatever is on sale.<br /> With the color mixed I squirt it on my hair. At first it is deep purply red, like blood from your liver or some other dark innard which hides blood. It drips on my face, my neck, one drip rolls down my chest and stops at a nipple. With plastic gloves, I hold a hand mirror, and see a niagara of purply red pouring down my neck. <br /> I wipe that off, and even as I do the color begins to turn auburn. Auburn more and more like blood. <br /> Now I am redheaded again, and I will be more careful. Tonight I will sleep once more on the bloodstained pillowcase; a little dye might rub off.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-3459871777226385682011-08-19T13:57:00.000-07:002011-10-24T14:54:05.528-07:00Dog Days of Wisdom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3i2sLbmSOARTSC-h5dCBy2Gmt6wUtpg9sNSnXLwORemF_TI06Quew0fWMWDHwY_NJp67Oq6aV7oAECgsLeAQjk73ZQNpVPXcyPOWc6qrKtdO0V6qgx3IXW_aqM-wGk4XIR0Vjf-Rn2L-/s1600/01010021.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3i2sLbmSOARTSC-h5dCBy2Gmt6wUtpg9sNSnXLwORemF_TI06Quew0fWMWDHwY_NJp67Oq6aV7oAECgsLeAQjk73ZQNpVPXcyPOWc6qrKtdO0V6qgx3IXW_aqM-wGk4XIR0Vjf-Rn2L-/s320/01010021.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642679303842064018" /></a><br />The dog days of wisdom speak with barking voices<br /> and small growls of jealous appetite.<br />They lick my mother-hand -- or bite;<br /> They whir like needledragonflies, hovering clouds<br />Over hot dogs restless in the moving shade,<br /> Bothering those driven by heat to<br /> worry at beggars' lice or imaginary fleas or<br /> The broken stick from next door's tree -- <br /> Dropping it, pausing, and chewing the end again.<br />All will settle down when cooler days <br /> point toward Autumn.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-50924496733419285232010-10-19T15:00:00.000-07:002011-06-03T10:52:13.337-07:00How To Pronounce a Word & Have It Increase Your Vocabulary by a Fewness Mr. James Fuchs, aka "The Magnificent Wreck" (because of putting shot, or shot putting, even when injured), died this month. The obituary writer for the NY Times wrote that "Mr. Fuchs (pronounced Fewsh) [was] the No. 1 shot-putter in the world in both the 1949 and 1950 seasons, during which he set four world records for the standard 16-pound shot, the last of which was 58 feet 10-3/4 inches.<br /> "Pronounced Fewsh" -- like foosh? like the first syllable of fuchsia? And how many words are there that begin with few? Eight if you count various forms of the same word, but I won't. <br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">FEWMETS</span> - the feces of a hunted animal, by which the hunter identifies it. "I been lookin' fer my durn cat ever'whar, chasin' it from <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewmet</span> to <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewmet</span>, from hairball to hairball; cain't find it nowhar." (NOTE: a fewmet is like a scat, but you have to wonder why you would yell "Scat!" at a cat unless you wanted more fewmets.<br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">FEWNESS</span> - the quality of being small in number. Pl. fewnesses. "My feet are not <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewnesses</span>, nor are my thighs; my lashes are <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewnesses</span>, but not my big eyes." <br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">FEWTER</span> - (n) a support or holder for a spear, attached to a saddle or breastplate; (v) to set your spear into the <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewter</span> (see Fewtered, Fewtering). "Yerp, Sire*, I was riding along topspeed trying to fewter my spear in my <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewter</span>. Damnest thing it just fell off, and I been lookin' fer that durn <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewter</span> ever'whar but I cain't find it nowhar'. Sorry, Sire." (NOTE: * this is the origin of "yessiree, Bob" if yer Sire was named Bob. Sometimes it was "Yessiree, Nigel," or "Yessiree, Cholmondeley" (pronounced Chumley.) <span style="font-style:italic;">For my next lesson, I will investigate words that begin with Chol.</span> <br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">FEWTRILS</span> -- trifles, things of little value, "There might be a <span style="font-weight:bold;">fewtril</span> or two in my handkerchief drawer." <br /><br />I would like to suggest a fu (pronounced few) more words : <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">FEWmament</span> (a small firmament), <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">FEWsomely</span> (used with small praise), <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">FEWment</span> (payment in pennies and nickels), <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">fulFEWment</span> (an unsatisfactory return on investment), <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">FEWneral</span> (an interment with hardly any mourners.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-82369199264316509922009-11-13T09:40:00.000-08:002009-11-19T12:59:23.510-08:00 I Believe the Crows<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu0o0fWV5Up_T2YvSzCM2pzZoMiD6BBg_k1_ES0bKSk2Jca1gc4dpVGr1wJqnoiOHbRagzxSTa9gNc0mQEEatRxBG4rEBC14XzaEdh1E480dza_goodoPVN567uLXnpTkSZ51cOyFybof/s1600-h/wheatfield+with+crows+images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu0o0fWV5Up_T2YvSzCM2pzZoMiD6BBg_k1_ES0bKSk2Jca1gc4dpVGr1wJqnoiOHbRagzxSTa9gNc0mQEEatRxBG4rEBC14XzaEdh1E480dza_goodoPVN567uLXnpTkSZ51cOyFybof/s200/wheatfield+with+crows+images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403645284982707346" /></a> <br /> I sit here every afternoon to watch the sun go down and the moon come up, near to each other -- both low above the horizon.<br /> I do not ask the obvious question: How could that be? The sun and the moon, so near connected? I do not say, <span style="font-style:italic;">That can't be, it's impossible!</span> because I know an infinity of late afternoons where I have sat and watched this same scene -- as if it were a painting! -- and I believe the crows. <br /> I believe the crows. Their mothers and fathers, and <span style="font-style:italic;">their</span> mothers and fathers, on back in time before there were paintings, have seen the same thing I do now, and have eaten the seeds of wheat, and have talked about it all as they do now.<br /> Look! Admire! Plenty! Caw! Caw!<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This painting by Vincent Van Gogh was completed shortly before he committed suicide.</span>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-54325148157677282942009-11-13T09:05:00.000-08:002009-11-14T12:44:29.791-08:00 My Own Castle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptM-pK9oIkGmhuqQmRj0l979dt7tcpxIOgqAupeclcwwOClxmS0LZEosBI9dcsp7Hd_3AIS5lsZaj-CppCMz-GI4ahAoGp_RNNxhvkBwv5F6qcIlYXSFVfid665ig_NZ1lGEDiKa3PP6_/s1600-h/big_guidoriccio_da_foiano_simone_martini_siena.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptM-pK9oIkGmhuqQmRj0l979dt7tcpxIOgqAupeclcwwOClxmS0LZEosBI9dcsp7Hd_3AIS5lsZaj-CppCMz-GI4ahAoGp_RNNxhvkBwv5F6qcIlYXSFVfid665ig_NZ1lGEDiKa3PP6_/s200/big_guidoriccio_da_foiano_simone_martini_siena.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403640791397082466" /></a><br /><br /> Although the sky is indigo, like the textiles from de Nimes, and although my horse is watered and well fed, I am not sure I want to pause here to stare at the darkened towers of that castle on the steep smooth mountain (made of stiff coagulated custard), nor do I want to hallooo to its loneliness. I dare not stop to gaze and wonder:<br /> Why is there a black cloud over that castle, with its many empty windows<br />and crenelations like filed teeth? <br /> I dare not take the time to look back at my own castle -- to admire the way it smiles at me in its good humor and waves its flag.<br /> Why does my own castle have a light and down-soft cloud above it? Are there two gods of the air blowing? One, his foul black breath, so thick it sinks rather than floats, and the other, laughing as she blows, so her sweet airy breath rises like the good smell of baking bread.<br /> Are ther<span style="font-style:italic;"></span>e two gods?<br /> I dare not slow down again because now I see the wooden fences that try to keep the dark castle-men safe from land or sea invasion, and I see they have but five warriors left. And are they warriors? or are they widows, left behind?<br /> No-one waits to hear me, but what I have to say is "I am your neighbor. I'm just passing by."Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-75740896810065993392009-10-22T11:24:00.000-07:002009-11-13T09:36:20.836-08:00 Lined with Black Lace<span style="font-weight:bold;">SWEATER•Black cashmere</span> lined with lace, w/blk snap-on mink collar, or embroidery strip. Size S $125. <br /> 1. Okay, which is it? the snap-on mink collar or the embroidery strip? that's all I want to know right now. Let's see; the mink = animal screaming in pain as it is skinned alive. I know I'd rather have the embroidery strip. <br /> 2. But what is embroidered on the strip? I hope it's naked men, frontal and backall. I like both. <br /> 3. Is the lace scratchy? Am I going to be sitting at the concert scratching in time to Chris Mann's <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.rainerlinz.net/NMA/22CAC/mann.html">Scratch Scratch - A History of Grammar</a></span> <a href="http://www.rainerlinz.net/NMA/22CAC/mann.html"></a>? Or will I be distracted (almost an anagram of scratched) while I'm learning to <a href="http://www.studioscratches.com/faq.html"></a> <a href="http://www.studioscratches.com/faq.html">scratch</a>?? <br /> 4. Sometimes it's illuminating to read want ads. What do they want? What do I want? Where would I put it? How many new musical techniques do I want to know about? What is it about hip hop?<br /> 5. Rabbits. I dreamed about a rabbit last night. I was helping a man who couldn't walk because his legs were too limp, and he really wanted to go somewhere down the highway, and I got him a rabbit also. I'm a very helpful person.<br /> 6. Whaddyuh think? Am I really a <span style="font-weight:bold;">BLACK Cashmere sweater</span> type? Do they ever make cashmere out of denim? rayon? kudzu?Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-45346373437302225482009-10-09T07:38:00.000-07:002011-06-03T11:15:35.583-07:00 Her Life List<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGrV9b415FyJfAJGlIzjcucN-LSzaiWDyWYbf7-lJnICeENbjhvQ9vgtKnQb1srcUv_GFc2tVG0WlexV07HoZhkeqe5D-NuPHiO_WhHaRg52GJksAISLCbZYDeEaXkcUyvLIRv_SDG_ue/s1600-h/Pi+%CF%80+symbol+green.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGrV9b415FyJfAJGlIzjcucN-LSzaiWDyWYbf7-lJnICeENbjhvQ9vgtKnQb1srcUv_GFc2tVG0WlexV07HoZhkeqe5D-NuPHiO_WhHaRg52GJksAISLCbZYDeEaXkcUyvLIRv_SDG_ue/s200/Pi+%CF%80+symbol+green.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390639718884790002" /></a><br /><br /> She was nearing the end of her Life List. She'd only started it a few months before, when she realized that many of the things she'd always wanted to do she had already done. (One thing -- "learn English grammar more perfectly" -- she realized that she would never do. For example, she probably should have written the second sentence [see above] "... she realized that many of the things she'd always wanted to do she had done already" or maybe it was "... she realized that many of the things she'd always wanted to do she already had done". But all she could hear was her mother's querulous voice saying <span style="font-style:italic;">blah blah blah</span> <span style="font-weight:bold;">already</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">blah blah</span>. It was too late for all that, already.)<br /> She had jumped on a trampoline; she had played a bass guitar; she had peed in the desert; she had had wild pigs brush against her as they ran through a forest; she had kissed a skeleton; she had climbed a sycamore tree 30 feet in the air and gotten back down by herself. With her cat. She had gone up in the basket of a cherry picker and surveyed her own street this way and that and peeked over the cornice of her own house, without ever looking directly at the ground or her own feet. She had jumped in quarry water that was too deep for her and thrashed back to shore, alive. <br /> She had pasted on a mustache, worn men's shoes and jacket, and passed for a man at a bar. (Someone, she thought maybe it was another man, had flirted with her.) <br /> She had written letters to the New York Times, Time Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, Rolling Stone, The Village Voice, The Washington Post, and The New Yorker, and eventually one of her letters had appeared in each. <br /> She had crossed "Jump out of an airplane" off her Life List, realizing that that was more honestly what she wanted. She had stood at the foot of a ladder, at the top of which a Mexican man leaned against a fourth floor windowsill while he painted the minions and pinions, or was that mullions and millions, or pillions, or muntans? Ah yes, <span style="font-style:italic;">muntins!</span> She had stood there, looking up, and seeing the curvature of the ladder, so tall it was mimicking the curvature of the earth she thought, and had decided against adding that to her life list. <br /> She had written a novel and she had it. Printed out. Somewhere. <br /> She had fallen in love once more, driven a tractor, picked up a spider and let it jump off her hand onto her shirt before it climbed into her hair.<br /> She had bid on, and won, the opportunity to walk slowly into a (large) cage with a (very old) tiger and stay for five minutes. $510 went to the Zoo. For free she had held a baby orangutan. (That had been near the top of her Life List. Oh, the sheer physical joy of that, the trust in those round beautiful brown eyes, the tickle of those darling fingers!)<br /> She had posed nude for a drawing class at the senior center, and afterward had chased a mugger and hit him with her umbrella. (If she hadn't had an umbrella, she would have hit him with her fist, but thank god she had an umbrella.) And not only that, she had stood on him until the police came.<br /> She had slept one night -- a sort of fund-raising pajama party -- at a homeless shelter; and been locked up one night in jail, for refusing to disperse with the rest of a crowd.<br /> She had called up the man who had broken her heart 40 years before and said, calmly, "I never liked you either." There!<br /> And now she faced the last two items. The last one was simply, "Die." The second to last was "Drive 120 miles per hour without endangering anyone else. Fly perhaps?" The time had come. She had kept her mother's old Ford Galaxy in a garage, taking it out every week for 30 years to blow out the ... well, now she couldn't remember what she was blowing out; something to do with tubes or pipes. Sort of like a colon cleanse for cars. This was a car from 1971, and it was long and lean and still a shiny dark green. It would look like a flying leaf, a glistening magnolia leaf, as it sped along, with her at the wheel, dressed in a cream-colored magnolia-petal satin dress with a nice hat on her head. <br /> She went to sleep that night, the night before she planned to fly the Ford. She dreamed that she drove to the grocery store, and saw her neighbor there picking out another dog. She went inside, and it was an antique show, and another friend bought a green enameled brooch in the shape of the <span style="font-style:italic;">pi</span> symbol: (<span style="font-weight:bold;">π</span>). Then a truck came up behind her and the driver complained that there were puppies running under her car, and so she threw a piece of paper out the cracked window. She could see tire tracks in the muddy hill next to her. The grass was ruined, ground into the ground. And then she pressed her foot to the metal, or was that pedal to the metal?, and in other words she floored the Ford, and took off at what surely was 120 mph. <br /> Her mother might have liked this! It was a glorious sensation. The Ford Galaxy flew straight off the top of a high building, passing through cumulus clouds and cirrus clouds (accumulations and seriousness) and slowly it began to descend. <br /> She could still steer! It was amazing! She wasn't frightened! Slowly the Ford descended toward a narrow one-way street downtown. She could see that there were cars moving along the street, and she could see the gaps between cars in the left lane and cars in the right lane, and places where cars were parked. She guided the Ford down, and it landed with a slight bump right between two cars, and she kept on driving, and then she woke up. At least she thought she woke up. Now she wasn't at all sure.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-42841599266596265132009-08-28T19:57:00.000-07:002009-08-28T20:01:18.538-07:00 Rib Cage Every time I drove to my friend’s house I saw the dead deer in the road.<br /> First she lay as a shapely but stricken form, her orangey fur stretched over high ribs, her small black hooves lying like tossed dice on the asphalt, her head resting on pebbles and the chuff of roadways. <br /> Each time I drove there, with my own tender feelings toward my friend herded, gathered for protection inside my ribcage, where they must stay invisible as if dead, I saw the deer – crumpling day by day, car by car, driver by oblivious driver, into the roadway, crushed so that even bloat couldn’t raise her up again. <br /> <br /> She is almost disintegrated now. <br /> <br /> Dust to dust? Sinews and muscles to ground meat; bones to chalky splinters, hooves to powdered keratin, doe eyes to pulp, mites to motes, and finally, after enough hot days' pulverizing, dust to dust.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-46386210833121894402009-07-28T09:54:00.000-07:002009-07-28T09:58:09.581-07:00 PSI (Pronounced Sigh) This sandy beach is one of many along the course of the river winding through the park. The beaches travel like vacationers in search of perfect refuge, and change size with every storm clot of debris. <br /> This month her favorite beach goes halfway across the river. Water washes out the banks and the shallow rush takes small stones, sand, sunken leaves on watersogged caravans along the bottom. <br /> She always brings her dogs. They pull sticks from the muck. They chase each other; climbing the bank on one side, then leaping back in to swim.<br /> She walks bent over, looking down. She feels the blood rush in her head. She gleans broken glass and crushed cans from sand and water. She has a knack, perhaps a talent, for seeing the particular shade of brown glass from the shoulder of a beer bottle, or for spotting a fragment of a plate amongst the small rocks. She puts fancy bits of china, glass with parts of embossed words, a china doll arm, a bullet, in her pocket. <br /> It is quiet; she mutters “Goddam people, broken glass, so much... .” She feels terrible today. Everything breaks. <br /> <br /> When you have a broken bumper on your pickup truck, first you notice that pedestrians look scoldingly at you. Something is your fault. Then, when a Schumann piano etude on the radio comes to an end, you hear metal scraping on pavement. It is yours. You stop.<br /> A large piece of rusted iron has fallen from the grasp of the chrome bumper. It has been dragging on the street. <br /> <br /> She wrenches it off, and when she drives away the truck seems lighter, quieter. She has left the piece of iron alongside the road, giving it to a fiefdom of castoff bolts and bottlecaps, shreds of tires, tangled bungies, and bits of forlorn glass. <br /> <br /> Today she has driven the truck to the park. As she wades in the river she finds a sparkplug, a tire that is being buried by mud, as if some troll under the river is pulling it to his part of the world. <br /> <br /> When you have a broken heart in your chest, especially if you are old, you first notice that this may be, probably will be, the last broken heart of your life. You don’t hear noises, you hear hearts beating and sobs. You hear breaking glass, and the clatter of washed plates that will never again hold meals for two. You aren’t quieter, lighter; you are heavy. <br /> She lets her tears pour as she bends to pick up trash. She observes herself from the shore. She wants to look broken. She wants to look strong. She wants to look lonely. She wants him to be looking. <br /> <br /> She realizes that she hasn’t heard the dogs in a while – the while she has been cursing herself and the “goddam people” who let broken glass fall into rivers to be mistaken by minnows for food, so it rips their guts. She feels terrible today. Everything is broken. <br /> She straightens to whistle for the dogs. They do not come. She is one of the goddam irresponsible people. She hears a train whistle, a high-pitched bark, an owl. Have the dogs been crushed to bits of bone and fur by the train? Will she leave the park alone, carrying a bag of smashed cans, plastic string, and a pocketful of wordparts: “oun...” “mad...” “refill...” “..ola” “...psi”? She cries some more. Then, without a sound louder than the river itself, the dogs return and wait for her to take them home.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-56881105430430928362009-06-30T15:14:00.000-07:002009-06-30T15:25:21.541-07:00 Two on the Highway A few years ago, I was coming north on 95, and then 395. On a curve, while going 50 miles an hour, I saw something I'll never forget, and I'll never forgive myself for not doing something. There was a mallard duck, a female, crouched near the concrete wall on the left. I'm sure she was injured or stunned and unable to fly away. I was afraid to stop, but I don't forgive myself for giving in to fear. If I always did that, would I ever do anything I should? <br /> A week later, driving again on 395, I made myself look for the duck's body, but I couldn't see it. No brown lump, no smashed bill and water-splashing feet, no downy breast pressed to the asphalt, no small bright eyes which I swear looked at me as I drove by the first time. Perhaps, I sometimes say to myself, perhaps she recovered when it got later, and the traffic subsided. But how realistic is that?<br /> Yesterday I was driving south on 83, and I saw a straw snap-brim fedora, waiting by the concrete wall. It was settled there, on the debris which accumulates on the edges of highways, and immediately I thought of the duck. Blown off course, both of them, and I did imagine the man's head, bare and over-sunned without the hat. And again, I imagined the mallard's ducklings, waiting for her to fly back.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-56174699996282854512009-05-18T09:43:00.000-07:002009-05-26T13:58:11.553-07:00 The Analemma of Living I hesitate. What is the truth? <br />Every day, I blaze a new starseen, sunshadowed path on earth -- a journey without Presbyterian plan that <br /> scribbles a figure eight. <br /> An <span style="font-style:italic;">analemma<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> of my wandering might <br /> resemble that of the sun's, <br /> which written (though not etched) in the sky every hour <br /> will describe infinity.<br />It's noon by watch and town clock, <br /> but the sun won't say that:<br />It's . . . earlier . . . or later. <br /> The sun stays where it is, scorched and burning. It is <span style="font-style:italic;">we</span> who move --<br /> We heretics who do not have to burn, at least not for truth about the earth and the sun. <br /> <br />This analemmic path -- caused by the earth's tilted axis and her elliptical orbit around the sun -- makes me think I should try harder <br /> to be where I ought, <br /> to act as I should, <br /> to weave truth into truth, love into love, <br />and simpleness with complexity. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You might say this is my own</span> <a href="http://www.analemma.com/Pages/framesPage.html ">Equation of Time</a>.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-54922954271869026412009-05-09T08:48:00.000-07:002009-05-26T13:56:38.561-07:00 Magnetism of Water When I saw Spaulding Gray in NY, Jackie Onassis and her date were sitting two rows ahead. It was somewhat unnerving to be watching Gray, but seeing Onassis at the same time...he was so intense, and she was so famous. Because of where she sat, I saw that her hair was like a helmet in the back, a steep pyramid that forbade assault on the summit. <br /> Meanwhile, everything Spaulding Gray said opened him to us. He had no protection except his desk. <br /> I felt awful when he died by jumping off the ferry. Many times I'd ridden that ferry too, up in the front where the water is pushed away by the ferry so forcefully and noisily that it looks like pale green whipped cream. <span style="font-style:italic;">[Just add eggs and beat slowly.] </span><br /> I think how easy it would be to just jump in. How hard it would be not to. <br /> That's water for you. Swimming to Cambodia? or to Staten Island? or back home?Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-34454582500823573782009-05-03T20:40:00.000-07:002009-05-18T10:23:58.104-07:00 Soffits and GablesWhat underlies the truth we see?<br /> Soffited eaves and gable overhangs. <br />In bed, before I go to sleep, I look around for <br /> the tools to scrape the rot and <br /> rout the nesting carpenter bees. <br /> <br />Soffited eaves and gable overhangs-- <br /> so long before constructed to protect<br /> the soft underbelly of my being. <br />But why should I keep protecting what<br /> has changed a thousand times or more, since first I built the gable that is my roof <br /> and my decoration?<br /><br />So, soffitted eaves and gable overhangs, <br /> are you ready for reconstruction and repair?<br />Shall I paint you with lipstick and shadows?<br />Shall I bare you to the air and look for sunshine?<br />I don't need to call a handyman <br /> to fix my soffits and <br /> paint my eaves and gables,<br />I will do it myself because,<br /> after all this time, I may be able.<br /> Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-13352519182135201312009-04-23T11:04:00.000-07:002009-05-03T20:57:37.905-07:00 Stars on SoulHis trews were strewn with gold A+ GOOD JOB stars and sprinkled on the firmament floor while he danced. She danced too, with abandon and perspiration, and glued a star on her sole. They walked four blocks, and her star did not stop lighting her hobble, and she found it when she unglittered herself for bed.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-34265702330761770882009-04-05T21:57:00.000-07:002009-05-27T11:56:23.505-07:00Sundial in Leakin - Time in a Place<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqHcNhdXc_MXhNgMJjQ87T9gQ8kmCgSj1i5mWvAur2BeX4wO03AVJ0zLl0QNvXBs9EK6n7ck5G21Ddo55FZV7NxneQhF-q47f4v0bwmDDNbxkcuqFqFqPeyMEi7OqKIBDVHOfwkUYK-gg/s1600-h/Doug_reading_journal_w__sundial_&_fallen_treeIMG_0006.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqHcNhdXc_MXhNgMJjQ87T9gQ8kmCgSj1i5mWvAur2BeX4wO03AVJ0zLl0QNvXBs9EK6n7ck5G21Ddo55FZV7NxneQhF-q47f4v0bwmDDNbxkcuqFqFqPeyMEi7OqKIBDVHOfwkUYK-gg/s400/Doug_reading_journal_w__sundial_&_fallen_treeIMG_0006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340578571210302226" /></a><br /><br /> Time turns on itself, a moebius highway twisting into new territory, no brakes work here.<br /> You might as well walk out of the desert blindfolded, as with your eyes open, because given a big enough desert you will walk in circles. <br /> One compass struts its stiff veteran's legs across maps and charts, measuring distances.<br /> Another compass wavers, then points with his blued sword to magnetic north. But maybe it isn't the same as True North; maybe it's a compass tired of its journey?<br /> The old North Poles are buried under glazed seeps of arctic ice. Graves of trolls are there too, in the ancient cemetery. <br /> The next magnetic north wanders like a warrier looking for his lost spear, looking for his new encampment. His descendants wait under the ice.<br /> <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">The "Time & Place" sundial sculpture (August 2008-May 2009) above, with Nature's fallen tree behind it, is by artist/activist Douglas Retzler (seated). I took it April 5, 2009. Go to <a href="http://www.artandeffects.com/special_projects/index.htm ">sundial</a>, then click on</span> <span style="font-weight:bold;">photowerks</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">then choose a set of sundial pictures.</span>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-74751033815020293582009-01-18T12:36:00.000-08:002009-05-09T09:00:28.565-07:00 On the Verge of Falls <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Each step is the first.</span></span><br /> My father taught me how to walk for miles looking at the ground and sametime at birds overhead, faint sickle moon, cat on a porchswing, cumulus, insectegg, cirrus, silver brooch. So in walking down Falls, I see it all except what is around the next bend in the road, what is under the bramblethicket, who is behind the steelclang door. But I can hear the tunes stuffed in oil barrels. I can hear whispers. A person could spend a whole life . . . lookwalking.<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Anywhere</span></span>.<br /> I lay one foot, then the other, on the verge of Falls Road. See there? Bugsquash; struggling leavesofgrass; dandelion whiskers; a rosehip blown from a gaygarden a block away; antifreeze puddle in a greenmelted gemmy dribble; splats of crow lime; a rats’ hide softened with forty-weight motoroil; a pigeon skin with pink legs stuck out like fancy chopsticks (I cross myself); a cobbler’s nail freed from a millworker’s boot in eighteen ninety-seven, ninety-eight. <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Ninety-nine, 100, 101, 102 … a thousand and one</span></span><br /> Sparklemica flecks; crusted lockwasher; twisted padlock key; the wincing collarbone from a med-student’s skeleton; the corner of a 50% cotton Confederate flag, sagged and suspicious up there on a high stone porch; a cicada shell hatched lonesome midway in the seventeen-year cycle; coal dust whupped up from a rehabbed cellar; a pinky-gray formstone chip; bentspoke of a bikewheel; three reflectors from pedalbacks (wanna bet how many there are on the verge of Falls?). Bottlecaps – crush-rusty boutonniéres from drunken bachelors bound to be groomed by brides? <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Each step is a different step.</span></span><br /> Scrapes of turd and flights of beetlewing. A bite of button with silkthread -- botticelli blue. A young girl’s tearstained friendship bracelet, fallen off near a hard-dirt shortcut home. Bits of broken glass: beer brown, Bromo blue, sunned lavender with greenlips of Coke bottles. Spangles of colored glass – yellow, red, blue and black – from a kaleidoscope that helped the curious child with A.D.H.D to get through a day…or was it for his rope-end mother? Dangle of red dog leash – a frayed handgrip and nothing more. What dog was it was killed? And, Daddy, is that her blood?<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Every step was a lifetime.</span></span><br /> Extruded from its mangled tube, dark oily lipstick smeared like rawliver onto stones. So, just whose kisses were promised and stolen? Is that a broken heart I hear? No, it’s just an orphan earring -- a piece of cheap redplastic; nothing more. Did that blue and white china shard come from the plate that held Grampa En’s last meatball dinner? And is that the nevertarnish lid of a nickel-silver rouge compact, like the one pale Gran carried everywhere for blushing youngcheeks, back in the day? <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Walk with me?</span></span> <br /> That’s a flyer for the VFW dance in Timonium: Valentine’s Day, with a polkaband and a hot buffet – tendollars, tenderly, ten years ago, gone for good and godbless. A shiny blackpearl of glassy slag -- spit from a cokefired train – rolled for 80 years, mile by mile down Falls from the North Central track. And (for just a second) a shadowblink of light through a shutter up the hill – signaling secrets like a boyscout’s mirror.<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> <span style="font-weight:bold;">What was lost?</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Who fell?</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font- weight:bold;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Who wept?</span></span></span><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">***</span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">What was the reward?</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Who won?</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Who laughed?</span></span><br /> That yellowbrass key – see there how the hole wore out so it fell off the keyring? So who was it couldn’t get in their house? Whose phonecall was missed? Left brown kid glove, wrinklefingers frozen in a curl – grasping what? <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Is each step the last?</span></span> <br /> Is that twig from a branch from a limb from a tree with a sparrow’s nest? That jaywhoppered woredown rubberheel mightacomeoff of Stanley’s workboot – the one it took him a year to break in and now it’s broke off. Damn! And a bluestripe denimhide workglove, pimpled with drywall cement, flattened in mid-handshake. Stanley’s glove? Or his friend’s … that guy, LeShawn’s?<br /> Wetsoaked dried soakedsoddenwad driedagain grey foldedfelt of newspaper – the letters strained into each other, stories mingled updown goodbad easydangerous shockingheartyfine with a chance of… What news is too old? What notice has not been noticed? Found your watch. Describe. -- Found your dog, green collar, describe dog. Lost. Sentimentalvalueonly brown kid glove, given me by my mother, my lover, my doctor. Still got the right one. But please, I’m on the verge of a, of a... A sooty brokedown mufflerpipe with coathanger twisted around it and a peeling of plastic chrome snagged from the bumper where it hung. Who roared into hell? <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">What was lost? A thought.</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">What was found? A line.</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Each step is the first step.</span></span>.<br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Every step is a lifetime.</span></span> <br /> *****<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> January 2008 for friends Christine Sajecki & Joe Young and their show <a href="http://jmww.150m.com/JoeChris1.html">Deep Falls</a> at Antreasian Gallery</span> <a href="http://jmww.150m.com/JoeChris1.html"></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-2349215328529190272009-01-17T12:49:00.000-08:002009-04-20T10:50:42.898-07:00 Grace and the Kitchen God Yesterday my friend Grace Young (<span style="font-style:italic;">Wisdom of the Chinese Kitchen, Breath of the Wok</span>) spoke on public radio about the Kitchen God who lives behind the stove in every Chinese American and Chinese kitchen. The night before Chinese New Year, on toward midnight, you start eating things like stir-fried lettuce, so that you eat right into the New Year. Meanwhile, my own Kitchen God is sitting back there, his legs up over the gas line, picking lint off his robe, counting dust bunnies, humming to himself, and waiting for the banquet which the thoughtful household leaves for him. He knows every bad thing you've done for a year, and he's ready to tell whomever will listen.<br /> In my house, right now, behind my stove, he's cussing me out because there's a leak in a pipe right above the stove, and lots of cold water has dripped down, and the puddle I didn't catch in time has made his robe sopping wet, and ruined his little stash of stir fry and dried shrimp that he keeps for emergencies. In my house, the Kitchen God wears a thick green terrycloth robe with big pockets, and has his own vacuum cleaner because I am not a very good housekeeper. Last year a small rat visited him back there, and he was not smiling. (Although I think they shared a lamb and rice kibble from the dog bowl, and possibly that lima bean I lost back in March of '08.)<br /> This year, I plan on leaving him really nice snacks and a small glass of beer for a week or so because maybe if he feels full he won't tell the others -- the Garage God, the Bedroom God, the Closet God, the Backyard God, etc. I just couldn't handle it if <span style="font-style:italic;">everything</span> started falling apart. <br /> To see more on Grace and <span style="font-style:italic;">her</span> KG: <a href="http://www.graceyoung.com/kitchen_god.html"><span style="font-weight:bold;">WokitchenWisdom</span></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-7811510888103673552008-10-02T13:54:00.000-07:002008-10-03T10:40:58.341-07:00 Hey! It's a Free Sky!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIeWbkqBotxC6CioRIjVqhcVAKjYRotsw46t6Srax-njGx7bN0p5olQCmFo2n25vAZiSH3vLAn5FXH71MFQFxBtjXgAm111_dc9OubAk7vovDPUbDPaDOtZxs4AjCl2TsnvoMW264tKI1W/s1600-h/sky:clouds+Rotunda0173.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIeWbkqBotxC6CioRIjVqhcVAKjYRotsw46t6Srax-njGx7bN0p5olQCmFo2n25vAZiSH3vLAn5FXH71MFQFxBtjXgAm111_dc9OubAk7vovDPUbDPaDOtZxs4AjCl2TsnvoMW264tKI1W/s200/sky:clouds+Rotunda0173.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252981491618796962" /></a><br />I stepped out the back door of the Rotunda and saw a glorious sky with clouds playing soccer and the sun playing hide 'n' seek. I pulled out my small camera and pointed it at the sky. One click later, and a security guard told me to put the camera away, photography is not allowed on the property. "I'm taking pictures of the sky! The sky's not on the property." "I'm telling you, stop taking pictures. I don't care where you go, but you can't take pictures here." In defiance, I turned on the movie mode, held the camera to my chest and slowly strolled to my truck, tilting the lens up and around. Then I sat in the car for 5 minutes photographing the sky, as reflected in the dark windows of the SUV next to me.<br /> I should have said, "OK, I'll sit here and <span style="font-style:italic;">draw</span> the sky." I wonder if that could be considered a first amendment right?Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-64394807958821952112008-09-13T20:09:00.000-07:002009-03-03T21:14:54.718-08:00Barkinglips.com: "This domain is under construction."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiw0WhHKmIck6NNGVO9z4pha8Rul9GWeVp9Pjd7NpdoVTzdtmKy9vjqn9eYkmS9jvxZ8FJoGTuAhh63o9UkMIzN4D3r-xNUWr4yFBxds9LfbkxQObItvA10JyvLWvcmsVwMc5-A-YQM4GC/s1600-h/lips_huge+.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiw0WhHKmIck6NNGVO9z4pha8Rul9GWeVp9Pjd7NpdoVTzdtmKy9vjqn9eYkmS9jvxZ8FJoGTuAhh63o9UkMIzN4D3r-xNUWr4yFBxds9LfbkxQObItvA10JyvLWvcmsVwMc5-A-YQM4GC/s200/lips_huge+.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245716584475448738" /></a><br /> My lips twitched, pursed, twisted. I licked them. Then I looked up my domain name (for which there is no website yet): <br /><a href="http://www.barkinglips.com/">http://www.barkinglips.com/</a> and I found what looks like a website for my "parked page" -- set up by <span style="font-weight:bold;">directNIC</span>! They provided the giant lips, and hyperlinks to many search pages for <span style="font-style:italic;">Lip, Chapped Lips, Hot Lips, Lip Injections, Face, Lasting, Plumping, Emu Oil, Augmentation, My Lips, Full Lips, Pink Lips, Big Lips, Bigger Lips, Wet Lips, Dry Lips</span> but, alas nothing about <span style="font-weight:bold;">dog lips</span> or barking dogs, or wisdom from the mouths of dogs!!! I've just requested permission to put my own picture (of a dog) on the page, so this may be gone soon, but omigod! it's better than anything the dadaists could have dreamed of! "Lasting Lips" has some particularly cool conceptual links.<br /> I believe it might be worth it to just buy a dot com address for $15 a year just to be able to enjoy a directNIC parked page for the nonce.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1888374290521631023.post-86541874188150340192008-09-07T11:38:00.000-07:002008-09-07T11:45:27.284-07:00 The Old Appliance Club Did she know when to quit? She called her stove a piano; she put frozen peas in the biscuit jar; she felt as frazzled as widow's net caught in an eggbeater. She looked up her name with Google, and omigod, there she was, the perfect definition of her unsaved self: The Old Appliance! And now there was a club about her! The club flew about her, whacking her ears, rounding off her shoulders, until she was just an old appliance, too wide for the back door, too warm for ice cream, too noisy for the keen of hearing.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com3