June 2, 2012

The thrasher has nested in somebody else’s yard. I see him in the alley sometimes, dashing over the fence, his elegant rust color flashing in the light. I am envious. I ask myself what I could have done wrong. How could he prefer another yard to mine?

Off to Charleston. Slamming down chai at Edna’s, reading a magazine called WNC Woman. Hilarious, a glut of gender self-delight. If men spoke of women as it speaks of men, there would be outrage. Ungrammatical, on top of it.