L'aura del Campo

Snails and how we live our lives. Images of a grey day.

It is how we live that counts, not how long, n'est-ce pas? Still, most of you expect to live into your 80s. Some of you want to dance into your 100s! A poem about collecting snails? Images of a drippy day.

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How we live our lives

Certainly this is more important than how long we live? But none of us know what challenges we face or how we will handle life's struggles.

I thought I would be a biologist. In September 1972, Marge Perry and I paired up to do a study on mollusks. I had an idea. She had a car. We had a good time measuring snails! I got an A in that course and in Genetics. It was the only semester I got a 4.0.

Then: academic ups and downs, a semester having a nervous breakdown in Costa Rica (never diagnosed but very real), poverty in Kansas painting houses and shooting at geese; in Nebraska unhappy as an orderly, happier working outreach in Lincoln neighborhoods. I moved back East. A big mistake. I eventually got a government job. They hated my guts and tried to get rid of me. Almost succeeded. It took them many years and another job later to kick me out.

I was known for my gardens, for reaching out to refugees, for parties and picnics, for giving of my time and money to those I believed in most. Now no one calls and it seems depressing. It is. But I write. I write every day and those who think I accomplish nothing because I am not paid can eat my shorts.

Oddly, I have much to be thankful for: those few friends who stay in touch, new friends, the kind folks of Oklahoma in 2004. I live on nothing. But I'm happier this way. Those who did me wrong did me a favor. My life has been enriched by leaving hell and them behind.

Poll

The results of my poll "How long will you live?"  as of 9-23 a.m.:

100: 4 ████
90s: 1 █
80s: 7 ███████
70s: 2 ██
60s: 6 ██████
50s: 2 ██
40s: 0
30s: 0
20s: 1 █

I answered 70s. Not because I don't want to live to be 90. My dad died at 82; my mother is still going strong at 84. Some of us just have more sadness in our lives. It shortens life each day in small inperceptible ways. To live a long life, one must be joyful.

████ Grey? Think sun!
████ Weather where I am: 64º grey and damp.
████ Weather in Vigo, Galiza, Spain: 52º and damp.
████ Weather in Yellowstone Park, Wyoming: 36º and snow.

Yep. Snow. It happens. Galicia in North-west Spain was hit by the winds left over from T.S. Gordon. Gusts may have reached 100 mph. Here, just grey and damp. Tomorrow it may hit 80º

MY LIFE

Monday I went to a writing class on voice. Tuesday went to a critiquing session. Last night heard the poet Jeff Worley from Kentucky. Today I shared my poems at tea time. Life is good some days.

Been tired. Been unsettled and a bit depressed, but I'm feeling okay at the moment. Wanted y'all to know that.

MUSIC

Listening to: Paul Machlis "At the Wooden Bridge". Peter Sterling, "Asleep in the Fairyring". I like harp music, but I also like Ricardo Montaner from Venezuela! So I'm trying to do a mix at Yahoo. Working on it. I'm under kaareengen (the bokmal version of my name). Y ahora, "República de la alegría" . I really like Enya, Sissel, Lorena McKennitt. But ... I usually try to surround myself with the sounds of silence.

IMAGES

The moisture glistens on two cars: slate green and chartreuse-and-black. The wet heaviness makes the leaves droop limp, a tint of yellow here and there. Under the grey sky-blanket, the brown pods of the redbud do not rattle. The wind is high in the upper branches. A splat on paper reveals the blue of ink from the other side. So much becomes transparent.

POULTRY, POETRY, whatever ...

Field Biology, Autumn 1972

         for Marjorie Perry

We collected snails, Marge and me.
With a ruler we measured them in millimeters.
The Mollusks of Kansas was our guide.
Such an odd pair, Marge and I,
she a librarian over 50.
Me, a young man only 20.
We connected along the strands of algae,
collected data for our project,
replaced my only F with a well-earned A.
In the fields, we gave each other presents:
my youthful energy, her ageless joy.
The snails must've smiled in their mollusk ways
as we returned them to their muck and clay. [163.370]