Thursday, January 2, 2014


Well, we are still waiting for the snow. It was supposed to start an hour ago, but still nothing. Well, not quite nothing. It is quieter than usual as folks out here hunker down. JV said there were lines at the grocery store at 9:30 this morning. At 3:00, I noticed there were very few bags of chips, potato, tortilla, or otherwise, on the shelves. The soft drinks were mighty scarce, too. 

Back to watching the last hour of Treasure Island. I very much want to go to sleep but 7:00 is just too early. 

I am exhausted. I was in housing court early this morning and I was enormously stressed out to see B2. Adamant, certain, unrelenting craziness and self-righteousness puts me sternly and severely in the anxiety zone. In the end, there would be no recourse in housing court except to be reinstated and that was not going to work. B2 was insufferable. On the other hand, her hair was so in need of coloring that she looked as if she were sporting a nice bald spot. Next steps to be contemplated.

And, of course, she lied and perjured. We weren't under oath yet. SMS was with me to give me the moral support I so dearly needed. I would have probably given up without his presence.

I'm sifting through the experience, looking for a lesson maybe, seeing how I feel. In some respects, I feel I am a coward. I could have insisted on a proper hearing or even a continuance, but I might have had to be convincing that I wanted the rooms back. SMS counseled me that I am a terrible liar and I likely couldn't have stood the strain.

While sitting in the courtroom, I read this poem that arrived in the inbox. I particularly like the last stanza. 

Ephemeral Stream
by Elizabeth Willis

This is the way water 
thinks about the desert. 
The way the thought of water 
gives you something 
to stumble on. A ghost river. 
A sentence trailing off 
toward lower ground. 
A finger pointing 
at the rest of the show. 
I wanted to read it. 
I wanted to write a poem 
and call it "Ephemeral Stream" 
and dedicate it to you 
because you made of this 
imaginary creek 
a hole so deep 
it looked like a green eye 
taking in the storm, 
a poem interrupted 
by forgiveness. 
It's not over yet. 
A dream can spend 
all night fighting off 
the morning. Let me 
start again. A stream 
may be a branch or a beck, 
a crick or kill or lick, 
a syke, a runnel. It pours 
through a corridor. The door 
is open. The keys 
are on the dashboard.

A dream can spend all night fighting off the morning.

At any rate, some of IT is over. I am still fending off anxiety and concern. I'm having a bit of trouble feeling the freshness of the new year, but before I decide to stay in that attitude,  I will try some sleep.

It looked like a green eye ...


  1. Have courage. Court always a trial for everyone but the judge who has no skin in the game. Sweet photo.

  2. Always curious to know if you think when they are lying in court whether or not they know they are lying or are just deluded.