Played 27 yesterday with Mr Z. Seneca consists of three nine hole circuits that all start and end at the parking lot. It's brilliant. Normally we start on whichever of the three seems to be the least crowded, all were open today, I can't remember the last time I played 1-27 in order. 333564344 445644543 454433444. I suck, fucking Winter. Excellent time. Earthgirl started a new painting in the woods off the first tee.
This is true, Earthgirl can vouch. Mr Z. (who I met more than ten years ago when he was a bartender at Dietles) has a ten year old daughter with a woman from Minnesota. He mentioned to Earthgirl that the woman went to Northfield Not St Olaf. Earthgirl goes, Me too! They did the math, Mr Z. said her last name, Earthgirl screams LAURIE? I was reminded that infinity runs into the small as much as the large.
We Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Gambier to visit Planet today. Another way to put it is we 270 to 70 to 68 to 79 to 70 to 146 to 586 to 62 to Grove Church Road to 229 to 308 today. Slideshows when photographers provide me with them. Next few days, links if I fish, none if I don't. Travelogues of course: what viewership Napoleon and now disc golf haven't killed - thank you, regulars - slideshows and commentary on rural Ohio back roads will. Distill.
The soundtrack, at least today's, by Edict of Earthgirl, will include Lampchop. By my edict, you are going to hear a fuckload of Lambchop if you're tuning in the next few days.
AS EVER AS EVER
Charlie Smith
I step back from the homespun,
the naturally dyed. Fresh vegetables
unnerve me with their husks
and peelings and little ruddy bits
to save for compost. Grass stains
and leaves choke the gutters and
berries ponk ponk and you can't
remember what you were thinking
bark chafes and flesh if you eat it
lies like a lump of chalcedony in
your gut, stopping the action.
Wind grieves at the corners of
the house and rain distills pity
to a purity that is irresistible and
poison. All know a flower's dumb stare.
Fruit is home for small black worms.
Trees thrive in mass groupings
that close behind you and shudder
and stir complex imaginings
we are wholly unsuited for. Better
a quiet nook uptown. A room
with faded yellow light and Monk
on the piano. The buckle
and belting of life are beside the point.
