Tonight I went out rambling to the highest point in Broken Arrow, the First Baptist Church, to watch the rise of what astronomers were calling a "super-moon." It was lovely and peaceful, just cool enough to have the windows down, listening to Big Band Saturday Night on KWGS. A number of other people had the same idea, so there was a little crowd gathered in the parking lot. I took about 20 pics trying to get a good shot---all of them fails, since both my tripods were at school. But I didn't really mind. I enjoyed it all, but mostly the peace and lack of pressure. (In truth, that's probably because I'm in the middle of research-paper grading, and today's grading quota was particularly brutal.) I didn't worry about the photos or time or mosquitoes or even being alone, which has never particularly bothered me, but I've come to relish more and more time alone. I was instead thinking of how to describe that moon, and other things I've written about her, how I get so much pleasure out of watching her. Finally, driving home, it occurred to me that it was a week ago I posted that last piece: another Saturday evening. And it dawned on me that I needed a blog, one that makes sense for me, and that I post to once a week: the Saturday Evening Post. My love of nostalgia and presenting a "real" experience were perfect for that title, too.
So here I am, hopefully at the beginning of another literary adventure (see my other blog from a grant trip in 2010: adventuresinliteraturenewengland.blogspot.com) that will test my strengths in a new way. I'm not alerting the media until next Saturday, when, hopefully, I'll have something more creative to put here. Watch and wait with me, will you?
Edit, July 6, 2012: Welllll.....life had other plans for me for the last couple of months, but at last I feel I'm ready to launch. Here's the post that started this, mentioned above, from the first part of May:
Am I the only person who can unexpectedly be completely staggered by an inanimate object? I stopped by the Goodwill at 51st and 193rd on my way home from the post office this morning---I'd never been there before, but had been told by many that it has great stuff. Within 5 minutes, I found a shirt: a turquoise t-shirt with little black paisleys printed on it....with shoulder pads, one hanging loose on one side.....the very shirt that I owned 22 years ago, that I once wore to a particularly memorable party with a particularly memorable man and lots of memorable friends....shortly before the fabric of time was ripped apart for me, the first of two times. Do you know that feeling, friends, of slipping down that rabbit hole and not knowing how and when you might get back out? I bet you do. I'm just glad I got my work and errands done today; I hope it won't be one of those nights now when I sit awake and wait to stop shaking. That shirt? No, I didn't buy it. I don't want to have to pay for an exorcism. I can live with the ghosts.
Tomorrow, then?
Tomorrow, then?
