I am an unabashed bibliophile. Nothing makes me happier than books. I have a lot of books; I just got an app for my iPhone that will allow me to scan bar codes (or manually enter details) to create an inventory database of my books. I will let you know the total number when I finish entering them all. It will likely be sometime in 2024.
In my small city, we don’t have an independent bookstore for new books. We do have a couple of delightful shops for pre-loved volumes, but for new releases, I have to rely on the chain stores or online. And since my taste in reading runs an eclectic gamut — especially in terms of nonfiction — Amazon and I are frequent acquaintances.
The delivery service Amazon uses most often for Prime customers in my city is not my favourite, I’m afraid. I can’t check the tracking directly from my Amazon order page, and once I do copy and paste the tracking number into the box in their website, I can’t bookmark the page. So every time I want to check it, it takes three screens and too many mouse clicks. That’s irritating.
Then there is the tracking information itself. The updates are hit-or-miss. Sometimes they incorrectly fill in the origin city, using my city as the location all the way along. So I have no idea where my beloved new book actually is. (And — I’m sure you’ll understand — I need to know!)
Here I sit, staring at my screen. Expected Delivery: Today. Why is there no “Out for Delivery?” Why is the last update yesterday afternoon at 4:10 PM, in another city? Why — this morning — did they update the expected delivery date two days ahead of when Amazon said it would be here, yet not update its location or status? Why do they toy with me this way?!
I need more tea. And I need my new book.
This post was also shared on
Two Writing Teachers‘ Slice of Life Challenge for February 16, 2021.
This is my first time taking part in Poetry Friday. Many thanks to Molly Hogan of Nix the Comfort Zone for hosting this week. The Poetry Friday hosting list can be found in the sidebar at A Year of Reading.
I have wanted to take part in this activity for a while now, especially since I have begun writing my memoir. The harder I try to write this specific work of creative nonfiction, the more poetry starts to insist on coming out of my head. I’m sure the Universe is amused at this.
Here are my two poems.
Superintendent He walks the halls like He owns them These halls, these walls, These doors, behind which Tenants cower. Jangling keys, Steel-toed boots, Stride of a mission. Roof leak on Rent day. Quintet Five graves on a cedar knoll Roots twisted around stones, The writing eroded. In the surrounding pasture, The cows, oblivious To the nameless dead, Flick futile tails at flies Clustered to drink In the pools of their eyes. The sun shines down, A light in August, While life lolls on.
There is a group I follow on Flickr called MACRO MONDAYS. It is a moderated and theme-based challenge group, with a different theme each week.
Although I am not a member, I enjoy seeing what those who are post each week. Every so often, I will look around where I’m sitting and see what I can come up with that fits the theme and shoot an image (usually with my iPhone, because it’s handy).
Here is my interpretation of Vibrant Minimalism:
Every month in the Time to Write Community (part of Teach Write), we have a challenge or two to get our creative juices flowing to areas they might not have considered.
The challenge for February is “My Life in Five Sentences,” and since I’m usually trying to pull something together on the last day of the month, I thought I’d take an early stab at it.
Well, everything came to me as images, and as poetry instead of prose. I wrote it and shared it with my fellow Time-to-Writers, and then debated sharing it here. It’s pretty personal, and a little bit raw, but hey. That’s — literally — Life.
My Life in Five Sentences I was born a half-century ago In a centuries-old city of Fog, smokestacks, wharves, And old brick. At ten, I was dragged off to Lower Suburbia, Different Province, A community of cookie-cutter houses, No ocean, few friends, And too many bullies. My intuition led me to safe places In the forms of teachers, And books, and libraries, with My own words pouring onto the page. My twenties and thirties meant Home, Back to my city of bricks and mist, Marrying my mister, rocking an empty cradle, And countless days assuming different names With the front of the class my stage. My forties were a blur stirred up By a noon crosswalk and a Ford Focus, Relearning to walk straight, to think straight, And a slow regenesis of Self, With my words being the last to return, At the age of fifty.