The Every Six Months or So Poem***

I thought today about how tiresome it is to be nearly always trying to get up, pick oneself up, put one foot in front of the other. It's not so much about staying up or even being down, as it is the keeping up, the act of getting up -- well -- do you even know what I'm talking about? To tell you the truth, I'd rather be lying on my bed half the time, reading and recovering.

That's why it's good to remind yourself, every six months or so, of your own personal success, of how wonderfully your life is going, how blessed you are, how perfect it is in every way. You know -- gratitude, living in the moment, only being given what God knows you can handle. I'm talking to you, Denise and Sandra and Christy and Craig and Heather and Erika and Tom and Dick and Jane. All of you. Carpe diem. One day at a time. You only live once. Oh, and count your blessings.

Success Story

My clothes are perfectly contoured
to my body. my shoes & socks
fit just right. My cat is a delightful
intelligent animal. My apartment
is great. The right location,
cheap rent. I eat the best food.
My friends love me. I adore them.
My lover is terrific & beautiful.
The sun is shining. There are trees
even in the slums in Washington.
I have tons of money & a gorgeous 
air conditioner. Great art hangs
on my wall. I live a spine-tingling life
of delirious sex & intense happiness.

Terence Winch


***Take from it as you will, but the tone of this post is sarcastic.

Delirious Sex, Intense Happiness, Tiffany Box Cakes, and Beautiful Moye

I've got a red velvet cake in the oven and nothing of import to report (im and re), except that I'm tired of inspiration and putting one foot in front of the other and gratitude and sayings like Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss the stars. The cake is an order that will be assembled with cream cheese frosting tomorrow and then made to look like it's a Tiffany box. There will be pictures, although this is the first cake I've made in a few months and I'm praying that the old hands won't be stiff and rusty. Sophie is home, sitting in her wheelchair and lethargically playing with beads and an old hairbrush. She had a number of seizures today, so I landed up giving her Diastat (rectal valium) and kept her home from school. This meant that I had to cancel my other plans which included a job interview and a visit to The Woman in the Quiet Room, but I have a babysitter coming soon who will relieve me so that I can go on my Californian rounds and pick up my sons from their schools. The photo above is of a charming piece of art, created by my Oldest Not In Years But In Time Known Friend, Moye Thompson, whose work I've featured before. She is a remarkable ceramist, and yesterday, when I visited her new show, I was once again struck dumb by her beauty and the beauty of her creations and her, herself. The show is called Shelter, and if you're in the area, you should stop by Bergamot Station in Santa Monica and check it out. Here are some more pictures, and then I'll put a copy of the poem that you see above (a poem that I've posted many a time on the old blog that always makes me laugh). And just so you have an idea of her ingenuity, she carved those tiny little letters into clay and then fired the cylinder that you turn with a tiny little twig so that you can read the whole thing. Over the top, Moye.

The poem:

Success Story

My clothes are perfectly contoured
to my body. my shoes & socks
fit just right. My cat is a delightful
intelligent animal. My apartment
is great. The right location,
cheap rent. I eat the best food.
My friends love me. I adore them.
My lover is terrific & beautiful.
The sun is shining. There are trees
even in the slums in Washington.
I have tons of money & a gorgeous 
air conditioner. Great art hangs
on my wall. I live a spine-tingling life
of delirious sex & intense happiness.

Terence Winch