Here are my Mendo-feetsoes
And here’s my Mendo-face-o
I look so glad ’cause I’m with Misha and the sea is silver dramatics and we’re headed to dinner.
Also: I wanna drink a cappuccino in Mendocino. ‘Cause that’s too good of an off rhyme to miss.
Category: sigh
The map is on the wall (photograph).
The map is on the wall. Now the packing happens.
If I’m gone from this blog for a couple of days, it’s because we’re packing and we’re leaving this home and we’re headed on the road. Roadtrip “updates” (poems, impressions, photographs, souvenir descriptions) will appear here whenever possible.
Apologies to Farmer #1 for the less-than-gorgeous portrait.
A poem of farewell (mine).
Misha’s off to work in a shirt that’s too big
on him but he loves its colors. I bake the bread
when he leaves, mist it and cover it, cooling.
On my bike around town my clothes don’t
get caught in the pedals. At the café I edit
my poem, the one that’s now eight pages,
I drink my favorite coffee. The man to my left
says to his friend, “We’re here to share stories
and energy.” His beard is braided. I ride my bike
to the store, I see Christina who makes earrings
out of old records, John from Self-Heal, and Jeff
from the fruit stand is my cashier. I treat myself
to sushi at the high chair that overlooks the street
and see the Suzie’s truck roll past, the one I rode in
yesterday. I’ve lived here three years and the food
I eat is delicious and so much of it I’ve planted
with my own short thumbs. I’ve lived here three
years and I get across town on my feet, I’ve made
human mistakes and baked foods in summer, heat
overtaking the kitchen, the kitchen that leads
to the porch where tools are hung or lean, the porch
that steps out to the yard where we grilled and drank
and read our books, the yard we bought a table
and umbrella for, the yard where poems woke
the neighborhood, where sunburns sang and worms
were fed on foodscraps. Friends visited and friends
stopped by and friends brought food and friends
bought books or art and used up all the toilet
paper. We met them and we said come in and now
the nights are warm enough to let us go out
into them, the nights we hope will lead us
heavenward into a land we’ll plant ourselves.
Yesterday’s poem of the morning (mine).
I’m wearing all my rings this morning
Norah Jones is singing about flowers growing
in the frozen snow, how it’s all a show
She’s saying everything she wants to in a song
It will take me my life to say everything I want to
especially on the topic of hands and feet and happy
I shined up all my rings this morning
The broken turquoise one, the thin swoop of gold
from Sam that I wore for weeks after her surgery
I shined my only sapphire and my TAYLOR ring
given to me by whom I can’t remember
What’s the point if I can’t remember who gave it to me there still
must be a point
I have fat thumbs and new sandals
from Moya who said, Oh just take them
they’re your going away present you’re going
away now you’ll remember me
Poem on a typewriter (mine).
So many wonderful smalls (photographs)!
Well, first this tiny pitcher was found at the yard sale that happens outside of Ellie’s house every Thursday. It’s ceramic and according to the guy who gave to to me (for free! thank you!), “very old.” After bringing it home I filled it with one sip of lemonade, made from 1/16 of a lemon plus some sugar. I’m kidding!
Ellie made me the ultimate tiny thing: she filled a tiny gold book box she found with the tiniest ojo de dios (god’s eye) known to man or god, and affixed a hummingbird feather on the other side. Are you dying right now? SHE MADE IT WITH HER HANDS! I open it to look at it at least twice a day. It is the best thing.
On Saturday I received a package from my dad, also known as Jonathan F. Katz, aka Poppa Dids, aka P.Diddy Poppa. In it were three small things: a tiny mug with my name on it that I bought during one summer at camp, a small silver spoon from my great grandmother’s collection of silver spoons (COOL), and a photo of me, aged three, with a big belly. Here’s me:
And here’s the spoon and the mug. Tiny mug! With a font that I associate with 90s computers.
My thumb is so stubby.
And here you can see the mug in the Cuteness Lineup I set up on Saturday morning:
I present to you the full lineup:
The Hershey’s kiss is from Marilyn’s birthday party on Friday night, where she slaughtered a pinata! And I found the little terra cotta pot at the thrift store. And inside that little bowl are seed packets the size of my pinky finger. They’re so small my human eyes can barely see them! They’re from a vintage dollhouse set! Maybe you can kind of see the tiny seed packets in the bowl in this photo below?
Let me tell you, ever since I’ve started blogging my small things, I’ve been receiving them left and right. It’s been a most thrilling time of life! Stay tuned for one tiny living creature and a present that was dropped from the sky for me at the farmers’ market on Sunday.
Poem about eras ending (mine).
For Later
We drove through bikinis, walked the paved strip
by the water as kids flirted and cursed. Clouds were low,
unmelting; dolphins moved through metallic
ocean. Sean found a piece of unopened candy on the road
and pocketed it. I wasn’t cold or sad or verbose; I was happy
he’d found something to eat later. I’m always thinking
of the delight eating provides me and how to dispense that.
At the party, Dean’s family was casual and kind, circles
of Ritz crackers beaming on trays. We saw the solar
eclipse, made watchable by the thick sea’s clouds. Night
light over sun. She was scooped, our bulb; we watched
her portioned. Whether you care about weather or not,
you could see it. And on cement, below, a group of us
talking, all seemingly young, hands at our sides, no
stones in our pockets to smooth down, to hold.
Another reason to love the world (video).
Sometimes you don’t need words! Sometimes you just need rhythm and some hand gestures.
SWOON!
Ack! Hurt back (mine).
I’m mostly okay today, but yesterday I was lifting and twisting in the truck at the farmer’s market and my back went ping! on the lower left side. Being hurt makes me very slow and aware of every motion, which I try to appreciate. I feel like Marguerite Duras in this photo–booted and fabulous, but with a scrunched up neck and rickety on the stairs. Also, I believe she has a little beard in this photo, which is most elegant.
photo by the amazing portraitist, richard avedon, taken in 1993. photo via FANTOMATIK, where you can find artistic photography of famous artists. (swoon.)
Thankful for the colors of paint (Matisse).
Sometimes one must buy one’s self a book of Matisse paintings after a day that is humdrum and low after the letdown of good friends leaving town, the bright, juiced visits over and the schedule back intact, the same old bus ride and no time to ever finish a novel, the sky clouding early and the promise of paperwork, because a Monday is a Monday is a Monday, and so to cure it a little, Matisse.
“Still Life with Lemons”
panache, perhaps 
