So I've joined Flickr but using it to post photos to this blog has created problems I don't know how to resolve. I love the size of the photo, but it's too big for my current template. It was eating my sidebar content at first. So I started tinkering with the width of the page's content in my template and shrank the margins to accommodate the photo, which is an appealing look only so long as I don't view the blog from an older browser, such as those I have at the office. From there, much of the page--too much--isn't viewable. I know you know more than I do, that you've got some advice for me, right?
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And I'm not harping on this (at least I seem not to able to help it) but my father keeps dying in my dream and I keep finding out on accident. I was in the pool yesterday looking up at the ceiling and thinking that the color of the paint--pale industrial green, faded seafoam, bleached turquoise--is the same color as the lit windows of the plant at night. Glowing slightly green in the dark. Like the windows of the old Greyhound buses. I might be misremembering. And I say "plant," but it might've been "mill." Or the building where they housed the concentrators, I'm not sure now. The mine has words of it's own and I've tried to learn them but it's an exclusive language. You can't look up words for the ruins above the Old Morenci swimming pool. Neither exist anymore. You have to find someone who remembers, who knows, to ask.
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from the Annunciation notebook, April 19, 2003
Losing trust in the Stargo years. I talked to my mother yesterday and asked her if she remembers me washing dishes on a stool. Well, you used to hang around me--don't you remember shaking out the orange rugs? No. But: I think I do remember now.***
