I’ve writtne a lot of poems about mortality, mostly because of Steve’s health. But I’ve never really written about disability, though his disability is probably the single biggest stress in my life.

When I think about writing about it, or really touching on it, it just feels wrong, like whining. I can write Death but can’t write Sick or Broken.

This post wasn’t going to be about poetry. It was going to be about living with disability. But I guess that’s simply something I can’t talk about. The proof is deep in this pudding.

I’ve done a couple of poetry sound files for the blog and over at pffa they are considering adding links to sound files. I’m for it.

What’s funny is that I found a poem the other day that had an audio option, and I’m afraid to listen to it. The poem is wonderful the way it is. I’ve created my own “sound file” of it in my noggin, and I’m a little afraid to mess with it.

I don’t know what, specifically, I think would happen. Back when I was a contributing member to the poetry world, I’d generally read a poem aloud before commenting on it, mainly to hear if there was any sonic play that my eyes might be missing.

But I’m leery of that sound file. I have an excuse. My computer here at work doesn’t have a sound card.

Have you ever had your opinion of a poem changed by hearing it read?

Have you visited The New Hampshire Review yet? I bet you slackers didn’t go. How can you call me a crazy damned fool if you don’t go prove I’m a crazy damned fool? Jeez. (Funny thing about poems. One of the poems barely made my “like” list, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. Now it’s firmly on my “love” list. And I bet even the people who have known me for ten years online wouldn’t be able to guess which one it is. See? A challenge!)

How about the Wiki? Liar! I can see when people post, and you didn’t. Don’t make me call your state representative and get you outlawed! I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!

Did you check out Grapez? The man is snapping his fingers to the bone for you.

Did you clean your room? I think I see some dirt behind those ears!

(I must be adopted. My mother never nags. She suffers silently.)

I’m talking too much poetry. I should be talking about one of my other loves: mystery novels. I’m one of those people who tends to have lots of books going at a time, though right now I’ve limited it to two novels.

Strangely, both are historical mysteries, one set between the wars in England, and the other set in Australia’s roaring 20s. That is assuming that Australia’s 20s roared. Did everyone’s 20s roar?

Neither book is grabbing me by the throat and refusing to let go. Now that I think of it, I haven’t read a mystery that really grabbed me in that way since my last Dick Francis. I’ve been reading mellower fare, like my beloved Laurie R. King.

I saw a Laura Lippman novel in the library a couple of hours ago and nearly hurt myself snatching it from the shelf. Then I realized that I have overdue books leering at me from the bookcase over there. *waves* I really should finish them before I take out new. I really should start them before I take out new. Ah, Laura. Maybe over the weekend. Promise you’ll wait!

I stayed home from work today. Work was being done on my computer, so I decided to work at home instead.

And I am excruciatingly bored. I rarely get bored, but right now? Wall climbing time. I can’t go too far from my desk. There are things I could get done, but I don’t wanna. Nothing is an emergency. I’m just sitting here, unable to concentrate, unable to write, or study, or read anything harder than blogposts.

Apparently I stayed home but sent my brain to work. When it comes back, perhaps it will bring lunch.

I need a good set.

The ones I have squash my ears against my glasses and make me weep copious tears.

Why is it that even things that feel soft and squooshy end up drilling into your head like diamond? Why?

And why do my hands smell of beer?