. Spinning .

It’s a happy, sappy, bouncy, flouncy day!

Absolutely everything is going to go well today, I’m sure of it: Starting with a birthday breakfast for my neighbor and friend; then on to a stimulating Contemporary Fiction class; from there to my job where I love to work when the barn’s not too cold; there’s a lovely soft cover of fluffy snow on the ground and I don’t have to worry because I drive an SUV and can laugh at the snow this winter; the squirrels are glutted on birdseed; I haven’t filled out all the entries in my company checkbook so I may have more money than I think, or maybe not; my naturally brownish blondish hair is peeking through and I’m going to let it because it’s not a priority time-wise and natural is good; my thumb has gone out on me twice this morning so it can only get better as I work and exercise out the pain; and I still don’t know what to make for dinner so that can be a bonus adventure!

Gee, life is swell!

Honest, I didn’t push him off the top shelf to land face-up on my keyboard staring blank and accusingly as if I “done him wrong.” It might have been that I had adjusted him a bit when dusting earlier and he lost his balance. For all I know, he may have jumped. He’s been so quiet lately. But I still hold him to be the master, and he knows that. But even God Himself must read other works than Poe. He’s pissed and acting pissy. I returned him to his spot of honor, quickly checking for injuries and there were none. The brick he leans upon just seems somehow a little closer to the edge–did I move that in dusting? Well then, I shall just go in the other room and read and leave him sulking back up above my keyboard. So there! I think. But methinks that Edgar also knows well enough that it won’t be long before I’m back at work.

I have to reneg on our agreement to get creative, and Edgar isn’t taking it well at all. I’ve shown him my latest graded paper that reflects, I guess the time I’m spending here. I have reminded him of his own published essays and he couldn’t argue the necessity of time and effort being expended in other areas of one’s life and obligations. So further forays into storywriting as well as Spinning itself will be less prolific until some sense of balance is restored within my space of time.

Yes, Edgar and I have not spoken much lately. He’s pushing me to write fiction not just stories of my thoughts. I argue that my English Prof has suggested these are stories just the same, but Edgar wants me to stretch my imagination and not just to repeat and embellish. Since Edgar is only ten inches tall and stuffed and my English Prof is live and thinking, there is conflict. Which, I guess, is what I need to get started…

Oh Joy! Digging up The Raven! Have pulled the following information off of Dennis Jerz’s Literacy Weblog, and am planning on spending some time delving into the poem that beats as steadily as my heart (the Telltale Heart, of course!). If I have gained nothing more in my quest for education than a crummy 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper with a gold seal which I, as a custom picture framer, can make look simply wonderful, it is the ability and inspiration to delve deeper into things–all things, even things I’ve known for years:

Knowing Poe [Annotated Version of 'The Raven'] (Maryland Public Television)
http://knowingpoe.thinkport.org/writer/annotated.aspEdgar Allan Poe’s most popular poem, “The Raven,” tells the story of a man who gets a late-night visit from a mysterious bird that speaks only one word: “Nevermore.” | Sounds like a pretty simple story, right? | Guess again!

[Once upon a Tuesday weary, while I pondered, bleak and bleary,
Over many a quaint and curious entry of unblogged lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my office door.
"'Tis some advisee," I muttered, "tapping at my office door--
Only this and nothing more."

...Quoth my keyboard, "Blog some more!" --DGJ]

I can always depend upon your weblog to come up with something to stir me to research. Love Poe and have a brick from a house in which he briefly resided and an Edgar doll purchased through the EAP museum website overlooking me constantly as I write. Unfortunately, I learned much of “The Raven” phonetically for recitation, and much like the Polish songs I can still sing from grade school, I never understood what I was speaking or singing! I have bookmarked the website mentioned, and copied your blog entry to my own in the name of research. Thank you, sir!

Just came from uptown–our library is having an Edgar Allen Poe reading Thursday, October 30th at 7 p.m. I must go to class on Thursday nights! The reading is for children, Adults Welcome (Poe?). I want to go so badly and yet I’ve never cut a class.

I look up to Edgar, sitting happily upon his brick above my screen, and it’s decided. Spanish is something I still have trouble learning. Edgar has promised to meet privately with me late, much later after class that evening. We’ll talk and understand each other then.

Download file

Time for a little fun. Love this song that was written by M. J. Wilkin and D. Dill, and is performed by The Band. Lyrics are below, and a link to audio should work above. This is my type of music when I’m feeling really evil!

Long Black Veil

Ten years ago on a cool dark night
There was someone killed ‘neath the town hall light
There were few at the scene and they all did agree
That the man who ran looked a lot like me.

The judge said, “Son, what is your alibi?
If you were somewhere else then you won’t have to die.”
I spoke not a word although it meant my life
I had been in the arms of my best friend’s wife.

She walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave where the night winds wail
Nobody knows, no, and nobody sees
Nobody knows but me.

The scaffold was high and eternity neared
She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear
But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans
In a long black veil she cries over my bones.

Credit: http://theband.hiof.no/lyrics/long_black_veil.html

To quickly dispel any possible circulating rumors that I am a depressing, bitter old lady, let me give you one or two tiny pieces of the puzzle. I have a husband who makes the best chili and gazpacho (obviously a patient man—who else will take an hour just chopping vegetables?) and who has brought me a single red rose every Friday for the last fourteen years. He is perhaps, the rock to which I cling when I’m dancing in real reality. My writing is something that perhaps is often gloomy or sardonic, but that is from no other man but Edgar (Oh look—he’s smiling down at me!). That, and the inclination to write most often when I’m having a saggy diaper day.

Whether it’s just Sunday mornings in general or whether it’s his influence, it appears that I’m definitely in an EAP mood today.

Focus, focus I tell myself. My husband comes into the computer room and stands behind me for a few seconds. “What’s that?” he says. I quickly scan the screen to see what he might be referring to. “What?” I ask. “That!” I look up to see him staring at Edgar who is now sitting quietly. “That’s Edgar Allen Poe,” I explain, and continue my writing. He walks past and settles at his own computer desk. But then, “Why is he naked?” he asks.

(Note: In support of the Edgar Allen Poe Museum and Mystery Writers of America, I purchased a brick and a 10″replica of EAP.) I don’t understand. The Edgar doll was supposed to inspire me to write. Sitting atop the computer desk he says nothing, does nothing, for himself or me. From his perch he looks down on me. Is it because I am cast in his shadow that I’ve lost my words?

There! Did he blink? Was the smile he is wearing sewn on or is it new? Oh Lord, what have I let loose upon myself!