handles...

on the last street what was taken for the labor of a dry hinge was in fact a cage of exotic birds proclaiming their vanity. then the orphan clothes dryer came into view. it's been standing since early summer. a sign around its middle. then diagonal the house of the tiny old irish woman. steely eyes. i used to think she was insane. now i know she just loves saint francis. she came to me once because she'd lost her gathering basket. i asked her to describe it. and she said without a trace of humor "it has a handle." she's fascinating.

at night the connect-the-dots is primarily light. amber lamps. light emitting diodes. bluey white dooryards. stars. moon. planets. planes. radio towers. in the day it's birds. in the desert it's that which casts a shadow.

tonight our shadows were crisp. i wonder what phase of moon. haven't been keeping track lately. a deer-like dog issued from origin unknown. the things that come bristling from the night.

i've missed the tuberose again. this time because i didn't trek over the hill for the market. this means i have to go next thursday. the season will be over soon. and i'm not leaving the vendor until i have me a stem or three!

this disc. a perfect feeling expressed through imperfect means. and the reflection of flaw is powerful and touching. the recognition of that striving is powerful and touching.

new socks appear on my needles. these for my father. soon i'll be working two pairs at once. the second a larger gauge for the growing moscow cold.

the house is silent. the sister and s.b. gone to cavort with giant rodents in anaheim.

to knit now.