March 15th, 2009

sledge hammer!

*falls over*

This weekend has been absolutely exhausting. Went up to Callahan, FL for the rifle instructor class -- OMG, I just realized what that means: I bought the .44 Magnum from another student in the class. So I have a .44 Magnum from Callahan. Passed it, so now once the credentials come through I will be certified to teach pistol and rifle. The next instructor class (Personal Protection Inside the Home) isn't until June or so, so in the meantime I'll train in some certifications that I can get on my own after getting instructor credentials. Anyway, class was good; one interesting thing to note: I had never once in my life shot rifle in the sitting position. Turns out there's a good reason: the sitting sucks. I will have to spend a day at the range playing with it until I figure out how to nail it down. Coupled with D&D last night and trying to connect with the folks replacing my hard drive, I was running about like a maniac. Also, I stopped at an estate sale and bought some bookcases. And a toy piano. Because it was hella cheap, and had great sound.

I am halfway considering trying to learn piano -- I used to play guitar, but never got too great at it, and I've always been lousy at music theory and sightreading. But I figure, I can *type* like a mother pheasant plucker, and piano is basically a keyboard with 88 keys representing variations on an eight-letter alphabet. So it'll only be like learning to read and to type Dvorak simultaneously. As Frank Castle says in Garth Ennis's WELCOME HOME, FRANK, "How hard can that be?"

(Then, of course, he falls over with six bullets in his chest.)
cass groovy

APED: "not just coat hangers"

Estate sale, weekend morning.
The strangers, coming through.
The house seen from the road, before.
inside it? No one knew.
And no one does, and no one will.
It's bitter, but it's true.
More came today than all last year.
That tells you something, too.

Toy piano, left forgotten.
Mismatched set of bowls.
Crockpot, getting rusty now.
Two weathered barber's poles.
A copied Rembrandt, cheap on cardboard,
Done badly, but they tried.
Bought, and loved, or kept, at least.
There was a reason why.

The visitors can't sense the joy,
the pleasure that this brings,
to tacky paintings, broken toys,
and woebegotten things.
Life cycles aren't all the same.
Some outlast human lives.
"We don't need it. Really. But --"
and so the junk survives.

Estate sales and white elephants.
Garage sales. Thrift stores, too.
You shrink away. But don't deny.
Deep down inside, you knew:
Back in your darkened closet,
or beneath the attic eaves,
the crap nobody ever wanted
lurks. And grows. And breeds.
cass groovy

the poetry request line!

Ok, I've been doing a poem every day for a couple of months. Enough for the novelty to wear off! I have the feeling, lately, that I've gotten too into a groove. So I'm opening a request line.

First seven comments decide what I'm going to write poems about this week. I do not guarantee that they will be the poems you *want* for your subject, but you give me a direction! ...but I reserve the right to pass and go on to another comment if I get stuck. One comment per person, one subject per comment. HIT ME.