Up goes the mad scientist to the room in his tower
where his instruments gleam in the half-light
while his thoughts are surrounded by the half-dark
that filters out from his heart, but when he goes in
and looks around, all he can see is the chair
covered with a bright red and green serape
and sparks are fizzing in the thought balloon
above his head, for yes, he is a cartoon scientist
just as everything I think about is a cartoon something
because anything cartoon is immortal
in its own funny little way.

“Why, yes!” you say, being hungry for pubs, and so you do. You get a pleasant note of acknowledgment and thanks back, promising a yay or nay shortly. October comes but the response doesn’t, and so you inquire of your advisors re the proper procedure for these things and eventually drop a brief, friendly email inquiring as to the status. No response. In January, you send another one, hoping you maintained a laid-back tone, but you also mention that this is your market year and so if they won’t be needing it, you’d like to submit it elsewhere. No response.

Let’s say that it’s now been 10 hypothetical months since your submission. The special issue is not out, so far as you can tell. In a special twist, you discover that the journal is generally running behind because of financial problems.

What would you do? Assume that your piece has been rejected without comment? Assume that the lack of rejection means that it's still in play? Would you politely withdraw and submit it elsewhere as soon as possible, or would you wait until a full calendar year has passed?

It's the right time of semester for a "go towards the light!" shot, right?

Me: Oh, 5:30 is fabulous. It’s still just a little dark and it’s quiet and secret. The air hasn’t been used yet. The ideas are waiting for someone to come keep them company.

Her: See, that makes it sound cool.

Me: And if you’re the only one up, you make your cup of coffee and sit, and things just come to you. Like a cat creeping into your lap. If I start then, the day is at least 15% better than if I start at 6. Really, though: for me, 6 sucks. There is no point to 6. 5:30, though: Totally and Completely Different. It’s sort of a twinkly kind of time.

I'm talking myself back into early-ness. Why in the world did I ever quit? Oh yeah, it was that 6-9 pm class I taught last summer. It threw my schedule off and I never fixed it.

This summer, I want to get to a place where I think it's okay to feel good. (Perhaps more on that later. Likely not.) It seems like morningness is part of that.

It's the look on Prince’s face right around 5:24. How often do you get to see someone who’s enjoying themselves this much and so good at what they do? Harrison’s kid was obviously blown away, and so am I, and so is everybody else on the Interwebs.

We stopped off in Fergus Falls last October while driving home from a conference in Fargo, ND. It’s a small town in western Minnesota with an old-ish, very well kept downtown. I had the Nikomat loaded up with a roll of black and white and was wandering around, shooting mostly signage. As I finished snapping a jive fox, a gentleman in his 80s came up to me and said, "Whatcha taking pictures of?" I pointed to the sign and explained my fascination, and he asked where I was from and I asked where he was from and it turned out he was from there but spent his youth in the northern Minnesota sawmills back when they had real winters, when it was cold enough to freeze the saw blades so the teeth would snap off and fly out at the sawyers. He was interested and interesting, dressed in boots and jeans and heavy black-rim glasses. He wouldn't let me take his photo. “Oh no, it'd break your camera. No. No.” Eventually he took his leave and walked on down along the buildings, as spry as me or more so. I couldn’t resist making a shot before I turned away.

how can you stand it
he said
the hot oklahoma summers
where you were born
this humid thick air
is choking me
and i want to go back
to new mexico

it is the only way
i know how to breathe
an ancient chant
that my mother knew
came out of a history
woven from wet tall grass
in her womb
and i know no other way
than to surround my voice
with the summer songs of crickets
in this moist south night air

oklahoma will be the last song
i'll ever sing

Becky offered exactly the right terminology. Farewell, '99 Kia Sportage.

In case you’re wondering, I replaced her with one of these.

It's still my car for tonight. But after tomorrow, no more.