It was so warm and lovely yesterday, I walked to school and back which I only don't do daily because of shoes and books--too little shoe--and started reading Joshua Clover's The Totality for Kids along the way, walking and reading as kids do, as I did when a kid and was scolded for not paying attention to where I was going. It took a long time to get to school, just as long getting back. I went to a job candidate's art talk before leaving, so I had pencil lines and fabric textures in my head and I took a few photos and read David Bromwich on the way back. I cooked some chicken, ate on the porch, and admired the begonias. I went to bed just as it got dark. It was hot, humid. Still. Until 10 or so when I woke to the tornado sirens and hail crashing against the house in a huge storm. Lightning on all sides of the house at once. On the porch, the heavy Appalachian chairs had blown 10 feet into the far corner. The begonias? Gone. I wandered around the house for hours, watching. I don't yet know my place in this place: I could not surrender to the basement, nor could I sleep. I didn't know what to do with myself, was somewhere between scared and bored. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes, alone. This morning, all calm. I stepped out on the porch, dragged the chairs back to their places. Took a picture of the moon.
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My blogroll is in dire need of some affectionate updates. Well, my desk needs clearing too, but I'm crabby about it and would rather just find some place else to work. Or something more sociable to work on. Would you let me know if you'd like me to add you to my sidebar please--in case I missed you? Which is apparently likely. Apparently empathizers can make for poor systemizers. If I weren't against thinking that way, I'd gladly call it a categorical answer to my problem. Though doesn't it sound just a little like Cult of Sensibility all over again? Without the 18th century constructivists--Hume--suggesting that the fair sex might be educated to cultivate a delicacy of taste over a delicacy of passion? Nobody is suggesting that anymore.
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"Unfortuantely," my colleague said yesterday, "women artists are still perceived as being intellectually flabby." The conversation had nothing to do with poetry or blogging.
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