Shifts in Light

Last night, I went to the public library to admit that I've finally given up hope of finding the lost library book.  A few weeks ago, I left it on a table in the church fellowship hall, while I went to the chancel.  I completely forgot about it until I was almost home.  I figured I'd pick it up the next week; after all, we have books from the 1970's that are still in the fellowship hall.  Nope--the book was gone and has remained gone.

I envision someone so desperate for Louise DeSalvo's The Art of Slow Writing that they took the book with them--for weeks, I've hoped that person would return the book to the library when they were done, as it's clearly a library book.  Alas, that never happened.

Happily, I can pay for the book and the $10 service charge.  I hope the reader who has the book treasures it.

As I came out of the library and walked across the parking lot that was crowded because of early voters, I noticed that the light has shifted.  It's that subtle shift of light that I often notice early in a seasonal shift.  My spouse claims that the weather has changed slightly, but I don't feel it yet.  Last night, the light seemed different, and it likely is.  The sun is not as high in the sky at 5:45 on a late August evening than it is as on a late June evening.

Later, as I digested the news of two guilty verdicts, Trump's lawyer, Michael Cohen, and Trump's campaign manager, Paul Manafort, I thought that the light has shifted in other ways too.  It's too early to know in what way, but I know my history, and I know what presidents might do in the hopes that we ignore their legal woes.  It would be an interesting exercise, to go back to various airstrikes and see what else was happening at the time.  But I'll leave that to someone more conspiracy minded.

Last night I arrived home to see that part of the fence replacement has been completed--hurrah!  Eleven months and three weeks ago, we returned to our hurricane damaged property to find that our fence was severely damaged; we've now spent much of a year having to wrestle the back gate open.  We got quotes on a new fence and made our decision.  In April, we mailed a check to the fence company, and we've spent months waiting.  We needed a site survey during what happened to be one of the rainiest Mays on record.  We needed a permit--that only took two months.  We've been waiting on the construction of the new gate. 

As with many home repairs, we've had so many months of non-progress, and then suddenly--wham!--any progress seems like a quantum leap.  Hopefully today they'll return to finish the job.  Hopefully, the final inspection happens soon after.  Hopefully, there are no problems.

This morning, I returned to writing something beyond blog posts.  I wrote another few pages on a short story that I have neglected since early June.  I had to neglect the voice of my inner critic who shouted, "Who do you think you are?  You're no Flannery O'Connor.  Why can't you write something like 'A Good Man is Hard to Find'?  That story has amazing foreshadowing.  You can't do anything nearly as skillful."

Happily, I just ignored that inner critic and forged ahead. 

Yesterday, my independent study student and I discussed that Flannery O'Connor story.  We meet in my office once a week to discuss literature as the Vet Tech faculty in the office next to mine are discussing issues with students, issues with their pets, and other stuff.  I wonder if they hear us.  If so, yesterday's discussion of O'Connor's story must have seemed particularly lurid.

I miss having these conversations about literature--and they're not the same with just one student.  They're delightful in a different way, but it's a much more limited discussion.

I need to get back to poetry writing too.  It's been a dry August, but I did write one new poem.  Hopefully there will be more in September.