I Wish What I Wished You Before, But Harder

Please be warned and forgive me, I'm in a good mood, had a wonderful dinner last night with Landru and Ilse and my daughter





in which history was made!

One of BFF's favorite stories to tell on me is that, years ago--Planet remembers it as being at a Maryland-Duke womens' basketball game, which puts her at about age 12 or 13--I was so deeply disturbed by Planet's stability, equanimity, poise, grace, and general goody-twoshoesedness that I offered her twenty bucks if she'd say "fuck," just once. She's faithfully refused ever since. Until tonight. A mere three months in the bower of liberal academia has changed our darling Planet profoundly. It'd make your head spin, how fast the little pottymouth said, "Baby needs a new pair of fuckin' shoes."

Mind, what happened was she had been talking about assholes running around drunk in the dorm at three in the morning at college, and I said, she's cursing now, I'm so proud, and Landru then took out the $20 bill. The conversation had turned to a need for winter shoes. She didn't remember the dare at first, so as Landru sat there tapping the $20 bill, behind his back I made eye-contact with Planet, glanced at the tapping hand on the bill, mouthed "fucking shoes," and - BANGO! - she connected, didn't hesitate saying the word or taking the money. Love. All around.

Mind, my favorite story to tell on Landru is that he was the first human not a doctor, not a nurse, not Earthgirl or me, to hold Planet. So, sorry, good mood, there's aargh in the links, but it's not heartfelt aargh, my apologies.

• Earthgirl couldn't join us as she prepares for her show. See above.
• Also, it's the slowest week of the year in Blegsylvania.
• More of this, please. A bud tells me somethings astir for Dec 2, not Franklin probably (he doesn't know specifics yet, says still in planning), but something.
• Why are you murdering yourselves?
• Body politics.
• Follow the argument.
• Our Occupiers.
• What now?
• You will be in danger the rest of our lives.
• Awesome motherfuckery (Young, not Fish). 
• Ritual.
• Things you might have missed.
• Keys' signage. 
• First Thanksgiving.
• Home After Three Months Away.
• And that's pretty much it, getaway Wednesday starting Tuesday, dying Blegsylvania shutting down early the slowest week. Bleggalgazing tomorrow, the slowest day of the year in Blegsylvania, or not.
• O! woke up with this in my head. Be in yours.
• O! When I think of the below, I think of the below below.

THE WRITER

Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back, 
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.