Two pieces of wonderful news as I woke up yesterday morning. First, my poem, “The Time of Last Scattering,” which appeared in Star*Line 37.1, has been nominated for a Rhysling Award. It’s a huge honor to be nominated among so many poets I admire. I am truly, absolutely, thrilled by the news.
Second, I learned that my poem, “Robot Love Song,” will appear in an upcoming issue of Ideomancer, a beautiful speculative fiction journal that highlights some really wonderful fiction and poetry. My poem, “Visiting Hours,” is currently live there, along with works by Mary Soon Lee, Bogi Takács, Alexandra Seidel, and others, so go check it out.
This weekend, like every weekend with decent weather and no social or child obligations, was spent working on The Homestead. Much was accomplished: laying out three new vegetable beds, spreading and compacting about twenty fuck-tons* of dirt and limestone to build up the road into the horse paddock and get a handle on the mud problem around the gates; cleaning out one of the three nearly blocked drain culverts on the property, edging and nearly finishing mulch around one of the flower beds. After a couple of months with little or no chance for yardwork, it was welcome, though we were both utterly exhausted at the end of the day. Still, it was a good kind of tired.
This weekend as I worked, I thought: Writing keeps me sane, but gardening keeps me happy. Maybe it was a childhood spent making mud pies or roaming the forest; maybe it’s my wild imagination that carries me into the woods for night after night of dreams, but for whatever reason, I need to be outdoors as much as possible. I need to be barefoot, with the soft grass beneath my feet and mud between my toes. I need to make things grow in the earth. Otherwise, I just grow increasingly miserable, and nothing will help it.
Currently it’s warm and cloudy outside, the dark, windy weather before storms that I so love. Unfortunately I’m stuck inside today, catching up on all the work I neglected in order to be out there Saturday and Sunday. My office has windows, though, so there’s that.
*This is an actual unit of measure, equal to roughly 10 craploads.
Post title: “Don’t Swallow the Cap” by The National.