It’s wonderful, love this week of clouds billowing with anger and tears! The lake is up again since the last post – a total of 7 inches for the week so far.  The absence of sun is fine with me, I’m working on a book of poems which somehow blends well with days looking dramatic as hollowed slates waiting to be violated with the right concoction of words. I need at least fifteen pieces and have only three totally finished.  All I want to do is churn out one poem today, just one!   It doesn’t help that the Casey Anthony case is on television. Somehow at 8:30am, you wait to see what the arguments are, what has been accepted into evidence and who might be on the “guest” list of witnesses. That’s the reason I have actually been shunted of brain activity, because my Facebook friends are all abuzz with “OMG”, what about this statement and that claim? Who is credible, who’s a waste. Which theory is the one to blame, can doubt still be established?  You find you start to second guess Judge Perry when a question is asked. “SUSTAINED!” I’ll yell at the screen, “Over-ruled!” I shout out loud and then smuggly shake my head up and down knowing I’m good at this. This is insane — I am spending time being angry at the “side bars”, it’s like a serial like the old TV show, Dallas with cliffhangers, who shot JR? Who treated Cayley like the family dog — that’s where it was left today. Where is the link?  Will Casey be let off? Who has the roll of Heinkel duct tape and why not bring Roy Kronk into that by asking him which brand he used in his fetish of duct-taping women which was deemed inadmissible?  As a writer, all this lends itself to too much stimulation that bypasses thinking about poetry. I feel like OCD is ruling with all the things to dabble in, photography, writing, watching the trial, it’s become a zombie land of just staring at the tv screen and computer headlines unable to look away from the train wreck! Even when in the car, the radio hosts are discussing it, the young guys on ‘Mid-day’ think Casey’s  “hot”, she’s hot all right, one hot mess! So forgive my foray into trial details, here I go messing with your mind in reverse as always — the writing on a blog has taken priority over trying to get into a mindset for poetry. Poetry must be a thing of mood which one would think should be these perfect “moody” days when lightening is forking through the clouds beyond my window and thunder is banging the earth so I can feel the vibration through the house and here I am engrossed by these strange and vastly “honesty challenged” people telling their stories and covering up the real details
So let’s go back to the first sentence and let me indulge you in photos  taken as it was a perfect day to search for a books store.  Adam said he had seen it the other day when passing Orange City. It was called, Half Off Books, (www.myhalfoffbooks.com).  It was a perfect time to get out of the house as Judge Perry called a 2 hour lunch break anyway and Casey refused to testify, DUH!!!  So off we went to a place that has nothing but stories to tell, fictional and not just like the trial.
What I love about our state is how the sky looks before the rains hit, you swear some traumatic dervish of a storm is on the same path you are on. Here’s a view of the 8 mile drive:
    the picture of the phallic symbols near this construction site, flanked by metal mesh surrounding two valiant construction workers makes the fiction mode reel wind in your mind. You can ALMOST see the lightening bend and bounce from one metal top to the next, then to the metal mesh standing and then melting the helmets of the workers so that, “A” they revert to another time in history, like Bill and Ted or  ‘B’, their inner demons merge the two into a twin evil persona that will have to be conquered by a comic book superhero,  maybe even Jughead on steroids just to be cynical. Or possibly C, they harness enough electricity in their electrocuted helmits to let the city of Lake Mary sell back their excess energy to the power company  for a profit and in so doing, every resident gets a nice, fat rebate check and the workers become billionaires by possessing newly fused braincells that can analyze the stockmarket  so well that Warren Buffett and James Cramer  use them for advise. With writing you must have options.
Actually the sky speaks volumes itself:     Looking up north of I-4 and knowing we were headed that way, I wondered if we should bother? But something in that atmosphere says keep moving, the rain will probably just move away and we wanted to find the bookstore.    

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I decided to avoid I-4 because I have been in rain so thick it walls up around you and all you can do then is to trust that the person in front of you has great brake lights!

The storm danced around us. 

Sometimes you think you might be right to turn around, but you don’t,  you can’t, there’s no freight train sounds at least. The radio would have said something…right? 

Finally the rain started pelting the truck and the bookstore parking lot was welcomed. We sat and waited till the music of the rain dulled a bit.  Then hit the 12, 000 sq feet of books shelves.
They had a good selection, a nice kids section, lots and lots of paperback Romance if you are a fan.  Lots of selections and groupings.  There were many titles and room for a group if you have one to meet in the center. Today there was a craft group, it would be a good place for a discussion group of any kind to meet. The owner Charles Munk would be glad to accommodate (386-917-0010)

The store sits to your right after turning onto Enterprise Blvd from Saxon Blvd. You can’t miss it.

There’s always something special about bookstores and libraries. Maybe it’s childhood nostalgia for the excitement I used to feel when encountering a room filled with so much diversity and titles and covers and confusion for how many things you can learn and how many books you can take home. There were years and years of library late fees that could have paid for some of my college tuition.  These books at the bookstore of course don’t have expiration dates. I don’t even know if they do trade credits like some places.  It was fun wandering and wandering through the aisles, I pulled open many a poetry book for ideas, write one poem I kept telling myself, though poems are drifters that suddenly come by when it’s on their time..
I exited with an old used library book on Goya, it smelled like a library book, all pulpy and leathery, no Kindle for me. Bookstores still provide that element of mystique and joy when finding something you weren’t expecting, something you must hold and turn, something to arrest all the senses . That’s what bookstores and libraries mean to do.
There was nothing on Beat Poets so we ventured on home with the rain still pounding at our back, in fact, decided not to stop by The Gateway Center because of the rain.
At home Ringo was asleep by my over stuffed bookshelf,  he had come in before the rain. His body language was that of something departed. Little Sasha is still unsure of why neither cat acknowledges her.  There she was at 3am yesterday dreaming about acceptance into the realm of two older cats set in their ways.

My rain barrel had, “runneth over” — the splashing rain drops looked like diamonds.  Later the birds came out to the feeder and I went to fish. Mating grasshoppers were everywhere. I threw them to the turtles.  The grasshoppers know the way home and swim to shore to mate another day darn it! &**^&&%*$$!@!! That’s cussing, these nasty things are eating my plants to their very plant veins.

The flowers were beautifully decorated with perfect drops. 

Fishing was not good only because of the turtles. I think of  trapping them and taking them off to other ponds! All they know now is that the bobber means food is at the end of the line. I am constantly reeling and casting and cussing at turtles.  They are too smart.
Back inside I listen to the news and of course we are back to the trial and politics and reality. Sometimes it’s good to steal away and enjoy everything but reality, forget how much you owe, forget that thing that needs fixing, forget you have obligations and deadlines. Sometimes you must read the clouds like tea leaves, let them instruct you on direction. Today they took me to absorb the written words of many others, but where are mine for my one poem?

Tomorrow is always there to face the new day in the sunshine of the real, the hard light on the pressures and anxieties we are committed to. I love a good story to sidetrack me, a nice journey that takes me to some place or learning of something new. I blame my loss of thoughts on the weather so fickle and blame Casey for not being able to complete my task of writing a new poem, and blame the bookstore for not having a Beat Book of poetry, (as if I can’t get anything from this addicting internet!)
I will wake tomorrow and listen to half truths and rebuttals, will go on Facebook and post photos and respond to friends and strangers who will argue and agree about this that and the other. For each foray into reality like paying my rising house insurance premium and trying to find cheaper health insurance or checking the checkbook balance and cringing, I will go off and dream, dream about winning the Lotto and some foundation I would create to help other dreamers bring their dreams to fruition. Then I will think about writing a book that can be a bestseller, concentrating on poetic thought: diamonds in raindrops, of wet cats that speak flawless French, of life altered and cruel, or people finding their desires or losing sight of them, of taking the picture seen around the world… there I go again, it’s 2:11am, where is my one poem?
The window view shows off the reflection of me on the computer blogging amidst my bills, my unfinished poetry and an old old cat with back against the computer for warmth who does not speak a word of French, nor English. My bed is clammering from down the hall, it says tomorrow is here and the night still has demands, but I must ignore them. Why must life be so complex and demanding? Why does that poem need to be birthed anyway?
My head listens to the air conditioner, the utility bill tells it’s own tale.  I think I will take my bed’s option, sleep means swimming in a mash of reality with the confusion of the over wrought thought to mingle it all. The other cat stirs by my foot, I feel warm fur reach out. It’s the sign to heed the call of the bed, it’s grown louder than the checkbooks’ wailing. I feel myself almost surge forward in sleep, that must be reality,  my feet ignore my overworked brain and walk me down the hall,  glad that some part of me takes charge of my senses,  no more trial talk, no more books. My fingers will then pull up the covers and my eyelids will close,  I will collect the tidbits of random scenes and construct something out of them tomorrow. oh here we go again, it is tomorrow,  the clock is shouting 3:04am in neon blue,  the day can begin without me, the brain yells back at the clock and I just laugh at another nightly argument with self to go to bed, another nightly crucifix of dragging raw time through a black hole … raw time unconverted and thinking of images of Goya,          Walk back to computer,  sleep on hold must work ‘raw time’ into a poem, just one poem — raw time,  Goya: Saturn Devouring His Son, raw time, I think I can work it, here I go bending raw time again…

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