1 Kilobunny: Flowers, Dogs, Bloggers and Daughters

It's a beautiful sunny day in the coastal redwoods and while walking Kenyon this morning I noted a new flower: Pacific starflower.

Kenyon, by the way, seems to be doing much better. He is playing with his sock, wagging his tail, and on our morning constitutional together he wants to explore the forest. Nevertheless, while walking back home along the side of the road today, due to his poor vision, he ran into a young redwood shrub and turned around and began walking in the wrong direction. He's so hard of hearing now he couldn't hear my voice, but clapping awoke him to his mistake. Still, on the rest of the journey, he had to nose into everything, even venturing into the forest by himself--something he hasn't done in a long time.

He was improving for reasons unknown prior to this new (old) behavior, but his improvement seems much accelerated since we once more obtained a COX-2 inhibitor for dogs, Previcox. It works like Vioxx and Celebrex in humans. If some do not believe animals experience pain, why is Kenyon so much friskier on a pain medication?

Kathleen and I take Celebrex, though in dog years we're not nearly as old (Kenyon would be 84). Besides, I'm the only dog in the duo, since you all must know by now how beautiful Kathleen is.

In reading Ellen Goodman's column today I was briefly miffed that she quotes a blogger at length with no attribution. Would she do that to the Associated Press? To Robert Novak? I think not. The supercilious treatment by newspaper journalists of bloggers is shocking. We are some generic phenomenon to be sampled like water; dip in and see what you get, even quote us, it's only water.

My blog, of course, is more personal than political. Sometimes I feel like Ted Koppel; I started it because we were being held hostage in Mexico by thieves for six months, just as Ted started "Nightline: America Held Hostage" because of the Iranians seizing our embassy. After that crisis was over, however, Howdy-Doody (doesn't he look like him?) found enough crises to go on for another decade. And here I am, nearly two years later, sometimes writing, as in the Seinfeld show, about nothing. Speaking of which I have two musical gigs coming up. No auditions were necessary, I just sent the venues a CD. As for Michael Richards(on)?, where did he get that kinky hair?

I'm becoming more circumspect in my poetry submissions, finally doing what all the books tell you to do: study your market. In the case of poets that means studying the vagaries of the poetry editor. Before submitting to another paying magazine the other day, I actually researched the poetry editor, even found an audio interview where he stated that he did not like "nature poetry"--which is what he mainly publishes in his eco-journal. More tellingly, besides Mary Oliver, the poet he is most fond of publishing is his wife. She has good credits, but I find such literary nepotism distasteful, as at Melic I wouldn't even first-publish staff; family would have been beyond question. I guess some editors are just so objective that they don't need to adhere to the appearance of objectivity, (he said snarkily).

I continue to read Jane Hirschfield in the hopes of meeting her. One technique she uses unabashedly, as old as Homer and as young as Disney, is to personify nearly everything, ascribing sentience to pots and pans and rocks and trees, whatever is in her immediate environment, which lends a magical background to much of what she writes. Another major distinction is the absence of romantic love; so far no important love interest, man or woman, has appeared directly in her work (that I can tell). From her poems I assume she's single, but one is often mistaken when trying to deduce a poet's personal life from her art.

Then Picasso painted his lovers.

(I wish I had the talent to paint Kathleen.)

Oh, and one thing more. My oldest daughter called last night, which she often does when she is "in crisis," like Ted Koppel--but she's one of those people who seems to live their life from crisis to crisis. I said something wise to her I wish I could better exemplify: "Life is not a crisis but a process." She was blaming herself for not folding the wash yet. "Either fold the wash or don't," I said, "but don't castigate yourself for not folding it."

Guilt is mainly a waste of time. It is only valuable if it provokes a change in behavior; if that change is not realistic or wanted, best not to condemn yourself for continuing a behavior; better to accept it.

Accept yourself to change. Don't change to accept yourself!


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