7:28 a.m. My daughter sleeps. I'm glad. She was thinking about joining a friend at our farmer's market, was going to help her "sell shit or something. Someone in her family makes stuff, and Friend helps sell it at the farmer's market."
The friend makes stuff, too. I hope she's selling her quirky little treasures.
I am off to a golf outing this morning.
What's a golf outing?
Really, I'd like to know.
The Band Boosters (I'm a band a booster) are sponsoring the outing as a fundraiser to help us pay off the new uniforms. People pay to play. There are all these little tweaks or prizes or whatnots.
To me, golf is like some alien being's form of performance art. I have never understood it, not even when I had a couple of days of golf class during college gym. I found the grip unnatural and the club oddly angry.
I'm going to the golf outing as a worker bee, food staff. I've got tomatoes and onions to slice up, a huge rectangle of sliced American cheese, baked beans, etc., all of which I will load into my little car after I do something with my terrible road of hair that's likely to get me more lost than I would be if I were bald.
This will all be over by 11 or 12, and I can come back here to think about that poem that wanted me to start it. It's about a man I used to know. Thinking of trying a persona poem, though I don't relish climbing into this man's head to find his voice.
I didn't know him well, but I knew him well enough to know that after my daughter was born, when I encountered him and his girlfriend (who was my good friend) at a concert at the college, my girl in my arms, and he reached out to touch her hand, I recoiled, and made sure his fingers did not touch her baby skin.
"Recoil" is not a word I use often.
I have no time to be here. But I needed to write this morning, a freewrite. Boring maybe.
At some point after I get used to writing out loud here, I'll stop apologizing for my posts. If they are boring, people won't read them, and that's fine.
It's all practice anyway.