extremely high resolution observations, a dinosaur with feathers. observe the holes in the substance of the brain, more or less filled with boots stockings comb towel ripe cherries shirts shoelaces a scanning electron micrograph JPEG of Cyclotella stelligera. out of this world asteroid mining by robots and/or the library robot that learns (how strongly did you co-operate, correlation zero) to spout the X-rated repartee of a coarse-tongued flirt. don’t overthink it – press 9kim8jn love the metal the rusting commodore or falcon skin-thin tires chipped windscreens glistening curves of delicate peelshine. let’s make this about the cherries shall we? auxiliary telescopes in the atacama desert region of chile – these two are not the droids you’re looking for. a japanese friend out in my woods cutting up a fallen birch stories of fetching water for grandmother’s iron tub making fires under it for a bath. the map ballpointed in tiny characters, beaver pond, plan for six cherry trees never sent
top photo: Shai Ben-Shalom, underneath photo from website of Steven Pressfield online
which merits a few lines of a poem:
she has grabbed each plastic toy from the bathwater
flung it away from
a contemplation of the calming waters
one last suspicious
head swivelling check that no one’s peeking
that her towel is to hand
then dainty as a Renoir or Degas nude she steps
into the shallow glass bowl
now the other foot –
she lowers herself into the inch of water
shivers as her delicate parts
leans forward to immerse
I will read her this poem by Amy Lowell; obviously they are kindred souls
By Amy Lowell 1874–1925
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
From About.com, Women’s History