Grey day number 347? Ya. I never realized that just being 45 minutes closer to the lake would change my skies. Wow. With the weather difference and the giant cannery chimney, they should call this ‘Greystack Tomatoe’ not Leamington. Maybe, in a nod to the recent development of cannabis greenhouses, they could call our town – ‘My Magenta Heaven’? (For those who don’t know – our night skies are coloured magenta from the grow house lights bouncing off the clouds, unearthly).
Names are funny. The little beasts of the earth and fowl of the sky and fish of the sea don’t have names for things. At least, I don’t think they do, they don’t talk to me very much. (Well, strictly speaking, sometimes, they do talk to me and doff the tiny fedoras. It’s “G’day, Brother Hubbard” and off they go. Those are the days that I stop at one bottle of red wine.) Only we humans give names. Is it that we have to name everything in order to remember where or what it is? The creatures don’t have to do that. They remember a lot, except the squirrel who vacations in my little maple tree. He can only remember that my windowsill is where he smacks the dried treats in order to break off mouthfuls. As far as what he left where? It’s any squirrel’s guess. In spring, leftover buried stuff starts growing in the middle of nowhere.
Yes, I have never seen a cat with post-it notes all through the house. They just go where they need to go and do what they need to do, then go back to that warm place. They don’t call it a ‘warm place’ though. They just ‘prrrrt–m-ow’ and go there. I called it a warm place because I am writing this for human readers and, as might be expected, I needed to add clarity, definition. If there were a pussycat looking over my shoulder just now, he would turn to me with a “Really?” sort of expression, then saunter slowly away. He would step carefully, pretending that he didn’t see what he just saw.
Yeah, yeah. Another grey (or gray) day. I am still working on poems. They suck, I suck..what the hey. It’s okay, I think. Since no one is publishing them and I write them in a digital form, then no trees have to die for misanthropic art. Misanthrophic? Haha. Yeah, the old poems don’t like people very much. I put them in a book for safekeeping. The new ones are changing, becoming stories and I think that is a good thing. I am trying to steer away from rhyme because that is like salt. It adds a wonderful flavour but easily overwhelms meaning. I am trying to stay away from obtuse meaning also because, well, why talk in riddles all the time? Sooner, or later, the audience starts thinking about eating twinkies or having sex with Ryan Gosling and not reading you anymore. Too much work.
Robert On The Air 