This blogging thing is hard.

Oh the woes of the pseud-busy me.

A few things. I'm tremendously excited because I'm going tot he opera tonight, to see some Wagner. It'll be the first opera I've been to in years, so I'm pumped.

I'm not sure why I'm not writing ONLINE more. Especially because I'm looking for writing groups. I guess I can't figure out whether I'd rather have a digital or physical one.

But in the meantime I started thinking of a good metaphor for a poem. Let's see if I can come up with a few lines.

There's a small button
on my left thigh --
watch for it. I'll depress
it during an emergency.
It deploys the twinkle
in my eye, and I've many
emergencies these days.
Who taught me that one?
To wield the "shiny thing"
with such potency?

Life -- the magnolia that keeps on bloomin'

Walking to my apartment tonight after walking a friend to his car. The magnolia has started blooming; part of me wishes there were more than one, but I'll take it. The tree holds countless pink-dyed eggs. The yolks have been carefully drained giving each blossom the illusion of delicacy; the marks of tiny paint brushes are everywhere and extend beyond each flower -- the precision sharpens everything around the tree, heightening even the details of the air which my fingertips feel.

Among those sharing the subway last night with me were four deaf people. They were signing while their lips were evoking. I watched out of the corner of my eye. The Indian infant was not so bashful, watching with wide eyes, squeals and all. His Indian grandmother and mother also seemed less bashful than me.

How different is their world? How much harder it must be for them to walk up to strangers in a bar and greet them after only one drink. Maybe they need more. Or maybe their differences have helped them cast aside fear and do it without any.

I don't know.

Do they feel more when they see egg-blossoms in the warming spring air?