Friday, December 28, 2007

The Week That Was

I'm especially fond of this season for two reasons: The house smells like oranges and there's plenty of time to read.

Have you seen Grace Paley's poems in this week's New Yorker? If you had five minutes to read this week, that's what you should check out. Some deaths add a layer to poetry that wasn't there before; "One Day" is like that.

This is also a good time of year for movies - my family's best chance at following the Oscars in the new year.

I generally like things best in past tense, and this is certainly a week of reflection. It's also a season of those internet memes: What did you do in 2007 you had never done before? Name some song that will always remind you of 2007.

Isn't it funny to group time into years? Or even months or days. I wish we kept time by meals or naps or train schedules. Anything but the Gregorian calendar.

It can't be divided into halves or quarters. Even oranges have that capability.

I've always lived near church bells, and I'm fond of quarter-hourly chimes. I like that there's even a code to show whether it's half past. If we can find a way to track the year with chimes, I'll go with it. We could have a different riff for the end of each week.

Happy almost-New Year. Please enjoy this muzak while your party is contacted.

Upon the subject of my chosen title

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." - Robert A. Heinlein

All right; here we are. I haven't always something to say, much less something worth sharing, but I'll do my best.

First entries are always contrived. Hello! I shall begin fresh (not "afresh," as E.B. White makes clear in his letters) in the next entry, when salutations are superfluous and we can get down to business.