andyrew

Intellectually, he is juggling half a dozen lit torches, Ming vases, live puppies, and running chainsaws.

—Neal Stephenson, Cryptonomicon, p. 819

This morning, I was reading-along with a MetaFilter post (Melting Spoons and Autistic Burnout) and reflecting on my many clients and the challenges we all face.

Cicadas whirring,
And first firefly last night!
Summer is forming.

I woke to a bespoke Sunday morning, and I found myself in a Spring-Forward state of mind.

With morning coffee,
I awoke to my two cats.
My thoughts exploded.

As I was viewing New Posts on Metafilter, and I came-across a sharing by Kattullus:

“still sleeping underground and had not yet spoken”

My tangents started here:

The residents of the very-assisted wing of the assisted living home gather in the living room to wait for dinner. Their walkers and some wheelchairs fill any empty spaces. Some have come on their own, starting almost an hour ago; others are brought by the attendants. The lone man came first, and sits sleeping in his chair in the middle of them all.

Tho’ it took but 48 hours
I had not time to spare
And so I gave it 36
And hoped to win the dare.

The brisket tried its very best
To seem like corned beef
But lacking time
Within the brine
It turned out merely beef.

--Charlene Hurt, 24 July 2008

[retrospective #4 in a series on Charlene's writings]

The young woman walking alone down the dark street just before the start of the New Year paused often, her head turned toward the brightly lit house from which happy voices could be heard. As the midnight hour got closer her pace slowed almost to a halt, as she listened to the sounds of celebration from the houses around. Then, she began to hurry, trying to make her Kleenex last until she got home.

Seeing your neighbor approaching on his regular walk
You prepare your greeting

The approach, greeting, response, and good-bye
All without either breaking stride
Requires careful thought
To avoid the banal or repetitious

     When I was a young girl my parents spent many weekends at the “club house,” which consisted of two houses on stilts along the Gasgonade River. The men fished, running trot lines four times a day, and the women cared for the children and cleaned and cooked and read Mickey Spillane mysteries. These houses are owned by my two uncles, and these weekends are filled with easy camaraderie and a lot of teasing. After supper and before running the last trot line they play cards and drink beer, laughing and often accusing each other of cheating, while the kids “sleeping” on the porch listen.

I write on Nature,
And create many haiku.
Some are elegant.

Time slices our lives
In so very many ways.
Enjoy the slicing.