I was cleaning house when suddenly the day outside was perfect

I hope this one doesn't offend you. I saw millions of grasshoppers today. I wish it were an exaggeration. It was a beautiful day regardless of your species.

I need to return to this spot for better pictures. The bus is abandoned much like the swing set, much like many places along the rural roads anywhere on the plains. Something about the openness and the exposure that is familiar. It's so quiet, but in the stillness is the searching for lost laughter.

Camp Kinney or Finney County Game Refuge. I thought you might like to see the place with a little bit of water collected below the dam.

I can't help it. Calves are adorable. There was a lot of mooing associated with this stop.

Cleaning

Betsy helped me organize my spare room, which is a task that I never did. Not when I moved into my house, not ever. So you can imagine what becomes of a room neglected like that.

During this task I ended up with several random sheets of things that I had written, not for public consumption, but because I try to get things out of me by writing, but I tend to be a pack rat.

I had a couple of untitled lists which after I write this blog entry will likely be shredded. The lists had no explanation or title, which makes one wonder what united the items, 24 on the first list and 7 on another. I figured out what the list of 24 was and I thought I would share a few of them. This one has to do with things that I had learned that year:

9. Things that I considered risky aren't really all that risky.
12. Friends of friends are awesome.
15. Babies are a good way to mark time.
17. I really am a pretty girl.
19. Most people will never realize that I am not telling what I think.
20. Hope requires more work than despair.
24. My personality can be overwhelmed.

The list of 7 for which I have not figured out a uniting theme:

1. I really like the taste of breadfruit.
3. When I bought my purple couch, I was looking for a red one.
4. I pretend to be less paranoid than I am for fear of being accused of being paranoid.
6. The most fun I've ever had dancing was with a cowboy who spoke no English.

I've heard some requests that I blog more regularly, but I haven't really had much to say. I may cheat for some blog entries this way. Sharing what I found on little scraps of paper so that it feels acceptable to pitch that scraps of paper. (Thank God for my new Molskine.)

Pictures from my summer vacation

Jedidiah Smith Redwood Forest. August, 2009. That's me at the end of the Boy Scout Trail.

This is what I feel like inside when I'm worrying about things. These trees are old. Some are over a thousand years old. Despite the vast age difference, this tree and I found that we had a lot in common. I gave the tree my email address and he said he would find me on facebook.

I waited an hour for this creature to quit hogging the trail and I finally just went around him like all of the rude Californians were doing. I asked him if he needed any help and he acted like he didn't hear me. Anyway, I hadn't met too many snails in my life and this guy made me glad. He was pretty, but he could have at least acknowledged me.

This picture is a little bit dark, but I'm sure you see the face in the tree too. Every time I tried to get someone else to look he would go back to being just a regular tree. He laughed at me for a long time, but I snapped a picture without him knowing. Ha, ha Stick-Boy. Everyone knows about your face.

So if you didn't know, Jedediah Smith died in Kansas near the Cimarron River. There's a marker at Wagon Bed Springs near Ulysses. The historical kiosk at the Jedidiah Smith Forest said that he died near Fargo Springs, Kansas. I had never heard of Fargo Springs, but I found it through the ridiculousness of the internet.

Hello? May I ask who's calling?

I stopped to take pictures of the phone in the highway. I left it there because I felt it was a sign, but that it wasn't my sign because I hadn't asked for any sort of sign. I was not contemplating something important when I came upon the phone receiver. I imagine someone in the future coming upon the telephone in the road and changing the course of his life. It is possible.
Should I call her back? Should I answer the phone next time he calls? Should I call about that kitten? If God exists, shouldn't he leave phone receivers around when you need to talk to him?

Limitless possibilities of what it might mean, really. And maybe it was my sign, but I won't recognize its meaning for a long, long time.

Sunday skipping church

Some Sundays are better than others. On this particular Sunday, I ate breakfast with some house guests at a restaurant. The breakfast was not spectacular. My plan was to attend church with my friends, but we had been talking about nature and what not and I decided to go hiking in a new spot instead. So they dropped me off at my house, I packed a quick lunch and headed east.

I try not to let myself get in the habit of finding alternative activities on Sundays since I ought to go to church and worship. But, some Sundays it feels like I've skipped worshiping to go churching, so I suppose it all evens out in the end. And Quivira was awe-inspiring, and I'm pretty certain that God intended that awe and that the awe was as good as singing and listening and shaking hands.

Some things that I learned:
1. I need to get a gazetter, especially if I decide to enter parks from the back way. I wrote the road name in the book I was using so I can enter the back way in the future without the hourlong side trip.
2. The grid system only works if you remember to keep counting.
3. Thank God for "Welcome to Rice County" signs that let me know I was on the wrong road.
4. Selected Shorts is a terrific podcast. (though I admit that not having kids in the car probably allows me to listen to things that my child-rearing peers must forego for a season. The Canoeists by Rick Bass. Wow.)
5. I would really like someone to drive me home after these days so that I can sleep in the car.

If you go, give me a call and I'll bring the insect repellant.

Quivira

The grass was a beautiful color. And soft. Wetlands are a strange surprise in the area. It seems unfair the way trees take over at any sign of adequate moisture. I was glad the grass won here. Wicked droughts, drowning seeds, random fires. I am sure one of the kiosks explained everything, but I am not into retaining information when there is so much walking to do.
July is sort of the off-season here. These birds get all of the prime real estate without much competition. Zoom is a wonderful thing. They all flew away as soon as I took my next step.

This is interesting, but I do not have enough scientific vocabulary left to explain it. This is the dried mucky mossy stuff left from when the water recedes. When I walked on the grass it made a loud crunching sound under my feet. This stuff must have been underneath everything, announcing me as I walked near the water
I got to walk through all of this lovely teddy-bear fur grass. Crunch, crunch, crunching as I walked. I suspect that Quivira is made for a bicycle. I hope to return with one in the fall. I will always prefer walking, but there was so much to see that much of the time there is spent driving. It would be impossible to walk, but maybe if I give myself two days I could do both.

Glint

I could not capture it in color.

Jacob's Well

It's one of my favorite places in the world: a cool hidden pool underneath the shade of the cottonwoods, surrounded by grassland and a buffalo herd. The sky feels like it is a part of you.

a link to an article complaining of blogs.

An article on blogs versus poetry which has to be linked on a blog.

What is the importance of connectedness? There are days when Facebook and blogging make me feel more connected to humanity and there are days when they make me feel a wide gulf between myself and everyone else. They are valuable for both of those feelings. Yes,this thought is merely a first draft from someone whose thoughts are only valuable to a few. (makes me sound a little bit angry about the article. I'm not. Most of what she says is true, but we assign our own value to things. So in that, she can't possibly quantify the value of either medium for me, and it is for me.)

On the other hand, it's great to express yourself through poetry, your own and others. It's true that there are feelings and events that need expression that won't find it outside of the poetic. So, maybe if you share poetry through blogs and Facebook, you connect on a higher level.

Connections are what they are. Sometimes we wish they were more, sometimes we wish they were less.

Indian Blanket Flower

After I found the bridge I went to Cimarron Grasslands which was filled with flowers, especially blanket flowers. The hiking there is always funny because you lose the trail as often as you find it. I stepped on a cactus and I got a thorn in my toe. The trail I took is about 10 miles long. The only real places to stop are when a service road intersects the trail which happened once (and did not happen as soon as I would have liked after the thorn in my toe). I hardly made a dent in the ten miles-- I took about 2 miles of the trail before turning around and hiking the same two miles back. The weekend I went it was between 75 and 80 degrees. As usual I didn't see a soul. My one regret about these photos is imagining what they would look like with the dawn's light. I'm going to have to wake up earlier someday.

WPA bridge

This is the WPA bridge in Morton County. I decided to find it a couple of weekends ago. It spans a fork of the Cimarron. Next time the Cimarron floods we should drive down to see it.
There is a sign marking the bridge so that you know you've found the right place.


This is not the right sign.


This is not the right road. I loosely copied the directions off of this website (my ineptitude should in no way reflect poorly on the website. What I wrote for directions read like this "N. Rich 4 W. 6 then N. Turn at a bridge.") It would be easier if I had GPS, but where would be the fun? This pictured path actually gets worse. Much worse. I wasn't taking pictures during the drive time when I was nearly high-centered. This may prove the point that I ought to have an exploring companion to read signs like NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT. When I'm alone I completely miss them.

North

It's been a strange spring. It never seems to be warm on the weekends, but I decided that the spring time hike was necessary. So despite temperatures that were not as warm as I would have liked (though very pleasant) and clouds, I found my way to Scott Park. I posted pictures a couple of years ago with a more detailed account. This time the pictures are for fun, and it's less of a tour.

The yellow flowers are from the top of the little path I climbed. Below is the path I climbed to the
top of the ridge below the top. (Hopefully that makes sense.) You can't really tell from the picture, but the climb was a little bit steep. I don't usually have a desire for the steep climbs, but last weekend I wanted to feel my feet slipping out from underneath me. I wanted to flex my calves and force my feet to stop when all of gravity was against me. I wanted to scrape my hands on the rocks as I searched for my next foothold. It felt good.

Spring

I'm not sure if I go to Scott Park at the wrong times, but it's never as green as I think it should be. Nevertheless, there were some sweet bloomy moments on the path. I know my hand looks gigantic in the picture, but it's just a regular sized hand next to tiny daisy-like flowers. Aren't they adorable?

Black and White in a Grey World

There's a bird in the last one. I spent a little bit of time writing. I spent some time getting wet. I took a picture of the dead yucca (which I thought was beautiful) because there weren't any live blooms.

a segue from poetry to hiking photos.

I went to the grocery store tonight. I brought a list. I brought two tote bags and filled them with lots of produce. I even bought a rotisserie chicken. They apparently go on sale after 8:00 pm or something. I haven't a clue the price of a fresh one, but a manger's special whole chicken is $3.99 if you are willing to wait until it's nearly not edible.

I got home with my items and made some potato-tomato galettes from a Martha Stewart recipe. They were yummy with the cheap chicken. And especially yummy with Shiner's Bohemian Black Lager, which is a favorite at the moment.

So amazing that I've eaten supper including a side from the oven and am now drinking a yummy beer. I think this might be the first successful night of adulthood I've had in several years.

Hopefully I'll be posting some hiking pictures soon. I went to Scott Park last weekend and may go down to Cimarron for the next. I'd like to go a bit farther for Memorial Day weekend... I want to drive a little farther and hike a lot longer. Any suggestions?

Audio

There are many that argue that poetry is more properly enjoyed aloud. My geographical circumstances have somewhat deprived me of the joy of hearing authors read their own work with any regularity, but when I'm reading something and the words start singing, I read it out loud to myself. I think Shakespeare really sold me on this. There are moments when you read Shakespeare and the text demands to be heard. I thought maybe you would like to listen to a few read by the authors. (The first two may require that you close your eyes and concentrate.)

Friday's Child by W.H. Auden
Riddle by Charles Simic
Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

Sometimes they give awards

This year the Pulitzer prize for poetry was won by poet W.S. Merwin for his book The Shadow of Sirius. Something that I haven't mentioned because it seems like you should know, is that poets publish books. I keep a journal in my office drawer so that I can write down poets I would like to explore when I have time. Sometimes I go on-line and order a book from a specific poet. When I visit the big cities or small cities, if they have a nice book store I go to the poetry section and look for a new book. It takes a pretty special bookstore to carry a good selection of poetry, but when I find one it's such a joy.

Here's a list of the the Pulitzers for poetry books over the years. And here's a poem from this year's poet:
Native Trees by W.S. Merwin

I was listening to Bookworm on the way home

Tonight on the radio was a little conversation about Whitman. Here's one of the poems they read:

The Learn'd Astronomer

some of my girls

Sometimes you find random poems. You will read a "poem of the day" and think to yourself, "I really like that poet." Then you spend the rest of the afternoon reading other things that they've written. These are some of my girls:

A Favor of Love by Molly Peacock
The Enigma by Anne Stevenson
The Riddle of the Shrink by Nuar Alsadir

In translation

If I started over, way over, I would learn a foreign language at a very young age. Then I would read poetry and translate into English... or whatever language I chose.

When I lived in KC someone loaned me a copy of Garcia Lorca poetry and I had to return it when I left. (There's a side story to that which I wrote and deleted... if you want an odd little quip ask me about it sometime when you see me). I was actually using a lot of Spanish in my job at the time and reading the Spanish poetry sort of helped immerse me more in the language. Mostly, I learned a lot of impractical Spanish words. Practicality was never my thing anyway.

Arbole, Arbole by Federico Garcia Lorca ( I never learned how to do accent marks on the keyboard... sometime someone should show me how).

It's nearly the end of Easter today. I hope you rejoiced.

Some poems take a few readings before their meanings are clear. Because poetry is a shorter literary form it allows several re-readings. So I give you one that I am still thinking about:

A Dirge by Thomas Merton

one holy one unholy

A Holy Sonnet from John Donne: At the Round Earth's imagin'd corners
An Unholy Sonnet from Mark Jarman: Unholy Sonnet 11

And here's one for Holdie

In undergraduate, my creative writing teacher in poetry said once that he would like to have an entire year to teach the poetry creative writing class. First semester the class would memorize poetry and second semester he would let us begin writing. It's been a long time for most of us since we've memorized a poem (though if Ted is your father, I think that isn't so true). It might be a good month to try it. It's good for your mind to challenge it every so often.

Others, at fancy places like the New York Times, are suggesting that you do the same. I'm not sure that memorizing poetry will suddenly make jogging pleasurable, but I am confident it will improve your writing.

So here's the poem my mother made us all memorize:
Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

And here's one for Holdie:
How to Play Night Baseball by Jonathan Holden

A classic

Who spells Tyger like that? William Blake, that's who.

National Poetry Month

This article from Newsweek states that poetry readership is at a 16 year low. Remember the hay day poetry had back in 1993? (I write, I don't do math so if I counted wrong on that number, it just illustrates the point that I was reading poetry back then and avoiding math classes).

Here are my personal 10 reasons that you should be reading poetry:

1. It's short. One small poem will take you 2 minutes to read and give you a full day's serving of thought. A long poem can take you an hour to read, but it will probably take you a week to digest. A full week of thoughts!?! Yes, my friends, that is what poetry can do for you.
2. It can express in a few lines feelings that you never thought anyone would ever be able to find words for.
3. It's a quick pick-me-up during your day. You can't sit in the office and read a novel or a short story, but you can click your way to a couple of poems through the internet, read them, and have your day softened, deepened or enlivened.
4. There is a poem out there for everyone. Really. Poems can be plainspoken and straightforward. Poems can be layered and obscure. Poems can be funny or sad. If you want reading about religion, love, moms, death, life, spring, sheep, horses, the devil, war, peace, nothingness... there's a poem waiting for you to find it.
5. Haiku, sestina, sonnet. It can be an exercise in form. But if it's good, it will strike you with its substance.
6. Poems utilize words in every possible way. The sounds, the etymology, the homophones, the euphemisms, the misunderstanding, the spelling, the look on the page of a each word may be a part of the poem-- or not.
7. When a poem is read out loud and it says something great, the room is quiet just like when a great piece of music has been performed.
8. You can't write a novel for an occasion, but you can write a poem.
9. A poem makes you feel the experience just as much as it makes you see it.
10. I just like poetry. I think everybody should like it. I think it's silly that people will spend time reading about whatever MSN or Yahoo puts in its feed, but people don't take a minute to read something as wonderful as a poem.

Hey! Here comes a poem now:

Saint Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell

In the morning I went to the office.

Beautiful and Terrible

There is a possibility of snow. I want to stay awake and wait for it to start, but that seems silly. I could just stare out the window and watch the big elm trees bow and bend in the howl until it starts. Seems like that would nicer than going to bed in anticipation of work. The forecasts vary. Last I checked the low end was 7 inches of snow, the upper end was 2 feet. A 40 mph wind with 7 inches of snow seems like a good reason to stay at home. I remember having to take 15 miles of interstate to get to my job when I lived in a real city. I dreaded the snow so much when I lived there. It was the dread that kept me awake. But now, knowing I'll probably have to go to the office in the morning, I don't dread the snow at all. The short drive might be challenging, but one mile of challenging doesn't cause me to dread. It will be beautiful and terrible if it's what they've predicted. And who can sleep when you know that you might wake up to that.

linda jean recommends

I have long (whatever that means. the internet hasn't really been around all that long, let alone the website, and I certainly haven't read the website as long as it's been in existence. so it means whatever it means) enjoyed the McSweeney's feature "McSweeney's Recommends" (such a column is hardly original. lots of publications have recommended items, but I guess I actually agree with "McSweeney's Recommends" more than other lists, plus it often has no commercial ramifications though occasionally you may be required to spend some green to enjoy a recommendation). So in homage to McSweeney (though not at all) linda jean recommends:

Walking to Work. It has been an unusually warm winter, early spring, frighteningly dry period which has made it fantastic walking weather. The temperature fluctuations here have reached about 40+ degrees Fahrenheit which means it's a bit chilly in the morning. This has given me an excuse to wear leg warmers. Also, the Christmas ipod occasionally comes along which is great fun, though walking is nice in silence or "street silence", as I like to call it, (or more accurately, as I just called it) is pretty cool too. I see more things and I talk to people on my walk home and it feels more natural. I am awfully lucky to be able to live so near my job.

Coffee. Hardly a new thing, but I enjoy treating myself to a cup on the walk to work. And good coffee is such a good thing.

New Restaurants. I do not really live in a restaurant Mecca so the new additions of a Thai restaurant and Italian restaurant to my town are most welcome and most delicious.

French Movies. Since my trip to France I've been working on learning some French which honestly is difficult and seems like an impossible sort task. However, I started watching French movies as part of that practice. I've seen some fantastic movies: A Man and a Woman, 400 Blows, Jules and Jim, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. I might as well plug Netflix because heaven knows it's the only reason I have any access to viewing these movies.

Lent. Perhaps I can't take credit for recommending it and I know that Ash Wednesday was the beginning so you can't really participate in all 40 days at this point, but preparing yourself for Easter, especially if the holiday has a particular meaning for you is really rewarding. I gave up something for Lent this year that has been a good thing and difficult. I feel the pang of the missing item and it reminds me of the big sacrifice and about how blessed I am. Just what the fast should be.

Yelling at cats. Cats seem to respond to yelling, especially pregnant cats like Lucky, who got yelled at this afternoon when I got home until she scampered away with her bloated, sagging, bulging self. I should have kittens soon, probably lots, so if you need any in your yard to yell at let me know.

Rain. I have been having dreams about it lately. I suppose I am praying for it as I fall asleep most nights at this point so it finds its way into the dream landscape. I miss it dearly. I have been thinking about some of my nice rain memories lately and I'm thankful for them, but I'd like to have a few new ones.

40 days to Easter

Here's a poem for Lent though the author is Orthodox and they do not follow the same calendar as the western church. Some years Ash Wednesday and Lenten season seem more heavy with things to let go of. I highly recommend letting go.

Shattered.

This morning was the day after a Valentine's Day of singleness. For me, this means reminding myself that I am worth dating which means hairdryer, hair product, makeup, date-suitable outfit (a good date too, an outfit for someone I want to look good for). None of this lead-in is really that important, but it adds to the tension and frustration of what's to follow.

I walked out to my car in my long brown boots and when I arrived I realized that the back window of my car had been shattered. Nothing had been taken from my car (I know. Who doesn't want to steal Rosetta Stone French I audio cd?) I stared dumbly for a moment and realized I wasn't going to church, which was probably ok because when you get dressed up that nicely for church it makes you wonder why it is you go to church at all. I called the police and went inside. I changed clothes and waited (I read the summer issue of Poetry Magazine).

Young Officer Bo showed up at my door and took down all of the important information all while chewing tobacco. He asked about how long it had been since I had seen my window intact and since I hadn't driven my car on Saturday it had been quite awhile. The he asked if anyone had anything against me.

Here's where I realized I was a bit loopy. After the obvious answers (which if you know me are obvious), my next thought was about those cats. I imagined the cats devising a way to get back at me for interrupting their amorous encounter-- to take revenge for all of the hissing. Maybe, if the whole herd were together and the jumped simultaneously the force would be enough to shatter a window. Who knows what they are capable of? I decided not to tell Officer Bo. But I've got my eye on them, believe me.

Your Valentine

I can't quite get in the mood this year. So here is a poem with little to offer this special day:

I Know, I Remember, But How Can I Help You by Hayden Carruth

And here's a song and a gondola ride.

Is cat-loving spinsterhood born or is it thrust upon you?

I do not know if it's that I'm not native town or that I am unaccustomed to the culture where I'm living, but I am getting frustrated with the stray cats. I have my very own herd. There is cat hair on the porch and they have stopped scampering away from me at all. They just stare as if my yard was their home. They congregate under the cedar tree and crouch as though they might pounce on me if I make any sudden movements.

This evening when I walked out to my car Clockwork sat in my path basking in the sun and then slowly stood up and sauntered three feet from me as I was leaving. Hampshire and Icing were sitting underneath the cedar staring. As I drove away I saw a sight that infuriated me. I saw the last straw. I saw Clockwork mounting Hampshire.

I slammed on my brakes and stomped over to the cats and demanded that they cease. It occurred to me that this would mean more cats and that they would be native to my yard if I let this behavior continue. (Does anyone know the gestation period for cats?)

Do town people call the pound about stray cats? Do I start throwing rocks? How can I end the circle of life happening in my yard? Can I put up barbed wire to keep out the herds?

Poetry for the occasion

I have heard both negative and positive reaction to Elizabeth Alexander's inaugural poem. Some say it sounded too much like prose, some praised it as Whitmanesque. Personally, I thought it was beautiful. You may compare it to the previous offerings.

And yes, this list below is it. Too bad if you ask me.

Miller Williams (yes, he is Lucinda's father).
Maya Angelou
Robert Frost (if you missed Writer's Almanac on Tuesday, the explanation for the two poems was interesting).

If you have any events for which you would like a poem composed, contact your favorite poet and ask about their rates. Most poets will work with you for a reasonable fee.

I can hardly wait for the mini-series.

I hate talking about politics, generally. People argue and judge you for having thoughts or for not having thoughts and for thinking out loud, but mostly for not thinking exactly like they do. So I am loathe to mention anything that is entertaining in politics, but I thought you should read this.

It's all about the dramatic irony of a particular governor quoting certain poems. I love it. I love the idea of a governor quoting poetry as his ship is sinking because it makes life poetic when it would otherwise be merely filthy.

But it begs a question about politics. Once someone gets big in politics, someone else begins writing his words so that he (or she of course) sounds good. Then you end up thinking about the tail wagging the dog. What is a loyal speech writer to do? Speak sincerely without acknowledging the ridiculousness of everything that has happened? The article presumes that the quotations are made without any one's knowledge and maybe that's true, but what if some guy who is soon to be out of a job and whose resume is going to include "speech writer for crooked man" decides to have some fun.

It seems silly that someone who believes he should represent the people pays someone else to choose his words. It's telling of our society, but also makes you wonder about all of the talented people who are writing stirring words which history will ascribe to another man. It's got to be an odd gig and wouldn't it be a little bit fun to mess with someone who puts that kind of trust in you especially if that person is a jerk.

............................................................................................................

Anyway, I read that Beyonce will sing the first dance song at the inaugural ball. If I were President I would have chosen Bob Dylan I think. Just because it'd be cool. Or maybe Raul Malo because I like his voice. Or maybe Over the Rhine so they could sing their President song.

color me bad

I am in the process of repainting my house. I live in a neighborhood of little houses from the 40s and 50s which are charming and in my case falling apart. The exterior of my home is aluminum siding and the paint started coming off in sheets following the insane hail storms from this summer. So, after loads of advice (thanks Robert!!), I am getting around to repainting. On Friday, I called the paint store to give my colors to the painter.

Then on Sunday, I parked on the street instead of in my usual niche (carport). From that spot I noticed a house which was pretty much the same colors that I had called in (mine were slightly prettier, but light green and dark green are essentially identical to "mesclun green" and "olympic range" when it's all said and done). This house is across the street from the side of my house. So if you were driving down the street and looked in either direction you would see these two houses. Would a driver say "How tacky!" upon encountering the similarities or would he turn up the radio?

I freaked out a little because I'm not really a native townie. Is it a huge faux pas to paint your house the same color as a neighbor's house? Obviously, it's not a problem if it's white, which most of the houses on my block are, but does that change when it's a brighter, more interesting color? Does it change if across the street is actually pretty far because of the wide streets?

The bottom line is the white and gray have to end. "Edgy gold" is the new "mesclun green".

The mysterious ipod.

Right now I'm listening to my ipod. Betsy once said that if I wrote a novel about myself that no one would believe the parts about my technological ineptitude, yet those parts are all too real.

For starters I can't figure out how to turn the volume down. It should be an obvious feature, but somehow it is completely baffling me. Next, I am listening to a download which I purchased to start out with just to get the hang of it. I've downloaded before, but never with an actual ipod to put all of the new music on. Anyway, I picked The Avett Brothers' "Gleam 2" because it's an ep and I have a difficult time justifying buying half an album (yes, I "bought" it, but I can't see it so it's different). Apparently I bought it twice. Don't ask me how I did it, but as soon as a song ends it begins again on the ipod. Which leads me to the next mystery: How do I remove songs from the ipod? I couldn't come up with a guess on this one. The little booklet is about as scant as the paint left on my house.

(So anyway, I've apparently been bad about having downtime lately and maybe that's why I haven't been blogging, but here I am trying again. Wish me luck.)