I tried to read more slowly.  I did.  I didn’t want to finish it in one night because I knew there wouldn’t be any more of them.  I played on the web some – read his obituary and a handful of old articles that are reappearing now that he is in author heaven, sitting carelessy on a barstool, no tie, but a buttong down shirt open at the color.  He looks like Spenser and Spenser looks like him with a little of Robert Urich thrown in.  I couldn’t read slowly enough and finished it in one night because I couldn’t stop.  I just couldn’t stop.

Split Image is vintage Robert B. Parker.  Perfect pacing and enough unknowns to keeps the pages turning.  It’s a Jesse Stone novel with a Sunny Randall guest appearance.  It’s a perfect ending really, so perfect in fact, that I wonder if it would have been the final book if Parker had lived. 

Looking into what is out there that will published posthumously, it appears that there is another of his westerns arriving on shelves in May.  I’ve not read those.  The best news is that there are two Spenser novels locked in a vault that no one has made a decision about.  Hmmmm.  Who is writing fiction that can do for Robert B. Parker what Parker did for Raymond Chandler?  Harlan Coban maybe.  Or Dennis Lehane.  Hmmmmm.

I am listening to Bach.  Birds are singing.  The sun shines.  And I have a new Robert B. Parker novel swimming around my head.  Life is good.

And so it goes

Time moves
one day after the other.
Dawn comes
unbidden
but welcome.
I wish for
jacketless mornings
and longer walks.
Today
the birdsong
almost masks the sound
of the furnace
and crocuses bloom.
I’ll move the grasses
and plant flowers
and tomatoes.
Some day soon
I will smile and mean it.

Thing the First
The usual morning ritual and a double take at the thermometer.  Almost 60.  Yes, the pavement is wet but there was no rain as I walked outside.  Our morning walks have been getting longer.  Yesterday I saw the crocuses (croci?) peeking through the soil.  Jonquils and daffodils too.  We are all itching for the real thing, raking leaves off beds, shoveling the last of the snow piles flat so they melt quicker. Dinner brought the taste of fresh asparagus – a spring taste, an Easter taste, a rebirth taste.  And this morning brought the scent of skunk.  It might not be the same sense memory as the flavor of asparagus lightly steamed, but it is nonetheless, a scent of spring arriving.  Interestingly, with a wry smile, I am grateful for both.
Thing the Second
The film Precious arrived in the library yesterday.  Run, do not walk, to your local library and beg them to order it.  Tell them it is worth the budget dollars.  It is.  This is one of the most moving, important ensemble pieces I have seen in a very long time. Based on Sapphire’s novel Push, it is a story that deserves more than a 50 word synopsis.  Precious is a 16 year old girl, the mother of one child and pregnant with her second, both the children of her father.  Raped by her father, abused violently by her mother, Precious manages to hang on to hope and self, to dig deep and hang on.  Many of us work with the precious of the world.  All of us see them every day.  Sometimes we make quick judgements of how they got where they are – young, pregnant, seemingly unmotivated and lazy.  This film asks us to look deeper, see differently.  It has changed me as only brilliant work can. See it 
And so it goes.

I have always, ALWAYS, had a dog.  Usually I have had more than one.  Living on a farm there were a lot of strays.  People dropped them off or they appeared, lost, hungry, hurt, confused, and much to my mother’s chagrin, I took them in, fed them, loved them, kept them or found them homes.  As the children grew we had all manner of beasties – guinea pigs, hamsters, rats, lizards, cats, birds.  They have come and gone.  But always there has been a dog.  I am a an animal person.  Fins, fur, feathers – it all works for me. I understand the appeal of cats.  Believe me, on these winter mornings there would be something so appealing about a critter that had the common sense to use a litter box and not require a walk or twelve.  But in my heart of hearts, I am a dog person.  Dogs are so….so….present.  When I hurt my back several weeks ago, the concern and understanding Bonnie exhibited was heart-filling and tender.  She kept her distance, understood the pain, and frequently acted as a gently moving handrail that I used to get up and down.
I have become fascinated, my children would say obsessed, with The Dog Whisperer. I took the dvds home because I needed something to laugh at and wound up becoming one of his ardent fans. I love his gentle, quiet way, his humor.  Were I a teenager I would plaster poster of Cesar Millan all over my bedroom walls and ceiling.  It isn’t about, “Oh my goodness, he’s so HOT.”  He isn’t.  It’s the understanding he exhibits.  While I believe I have the perfect dog in Miss Bonnie, who has grown from a little ball of fluff to a sensitive, mature bitch, there are always some areas that can be more balanced.  I know the chasing bikes and things with wheels is my problem,, not hers.  I become tense when a bike wheels by, anticipating her herding/prey reaction.  She responds accordingly, barking and chasing and trying to put them in their place.  We will deal with that this spring and summer, whne the bikes and skateboards are out in force.  I have always wanted a dog to go biking with and I think, thanks to Millan, I have the skills to teach her now.  She no longer lunges at the vacuum, a source of serious aggravation in the past, but rather turns away, shrugs her shoulders, and goes back to sleep.  I managed to accomplish this without raising my voice or becoming frustrated.  Pretty cool, actually.  And I owe it all to the Dog Whisperer.  So does Bonnie.
And so it goes.

Some folks are complaining about American aid to Haiti and now Chile.  My initial thoughts:
It’s what neighbors do – we help one another.  If there is a death we make casseroles and baked goods.  If there is a birth we make blankets and booties.  If there is a graduation we write a check or give a dictionary.  If there is a disaster, we help rebuild.  It’s what we do.  We help our neighbors and friends, often regardless of how well we know them.  It’s what we do.
The world has become a smaller place.  Haiti is our neighbor.  Chile is our neighbor.  Afghanistan is our neighbor. (I am not going to the place where we seem to think that shooting our neighbors is a positive response.  Not now, anyway.)  Then I thought about how much international aid the United States received after Katrina.  Take a look at this:
http://www.nationmaster.com/graph/dis_hur_kat_int_aid_res-hurricane-katrina-international-aid-response
Our neighbors helped us.  They came.  They pledged money.  They sent doctors and divers and builders.  Our neighbors helped.  Our neighbors live farther away now than they did fifty years ago, but they are still our neighbors and we help one another.  That is who we are and it is who we should be.
And so it goes.

A snow day yesterday was a gift.  The library was actually closed and I got to stay home and do not much of anything.  The snow came and came and came.  We have two new feet and the only good part is that the gray and black sluch and muck is covered up with a new coat of paint.  The bad part is that I fell – again – and jarred the hell out of my back and neck.  I have a pounding headache this morning.  Whine.  Piss.  Moan.
I did make wonderful soup – homemade stock and chicken, carrots, celery, parsnips, onion.  I think it wanted tomatoes but no one like it when I do that.  Sigh.
Another earthquake!?  Tsunami watch?!  It feels petty to complain about a few feet of snow when I have hot soup and electricity and heat and coziness.  My heart aches for these people.  Would that I could bring a handful of them home and feed them.
And so it goes.

A glorious five days full of good friends and refreshing conversation.  I didn’t read much of anything but the paper and have decided that I should write grants for a living.  But that’s another post.  In fact, this short trip has provided fodder for about a week’s worth so I will spread them out and not try to write it all at once.  In between the conversation and laughter we saw The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1054606/
This was the movie being filmed when Heath Ledger died.  What a waste of a life and a loss to the cinematic world this young man’s death was!  The movie is wonderful.  Honest.  I don’t usually get farce and feel really stupid after seeing it but this one was hilarious.  I loved it enough to buy it because I think repeated viewings will allow me to pull back layers that I most certainly missed thie first time out.  The interweaving of various actors to fill in the blanks left by Ledger’s death were seamless and brilliant and I cannot imagine it done any other way.  Johnny Depp playing Heath Ledger playing a character was a sight to behold.  See it if you can.  I’d be interested in your thoughts as the film got ho hum reviews.
I missed it here, in this virtual cafe.  Sometimes it strikes me as odd to count as friends people I have never met and probably won’t in any “real” time.  But the rest of the time, most of the time, it doesn’t bother me one bit and feels as natural and normal as real time friends and compadres.
And now off to shower and the first bout of physical therapy and then the nose goes straight to the grindstone.  Ouch!
And so it goes.

I am away for 5 days for head clearing, old friends and Picasso. 
I shall return renewed and ready.
Must pack.
And so it goes.

“You’re only in control of how you say ‘No.’”  Sandra Bullock on Morning Edition today.  And when you say “No.”  Learning to say “No.”  It’s a two letter word.  How hard can it be?  Very.  And still, it is viewed by many as a crime to say, “Gosh.  No.  I won’t/can’t do this/that/the other thing.”  Learning to say “No.”  I’m still learning, learning to stop and think before I blurt out my knee jerk reaction of “Sure. I can/will do this/that/theother thing.”  It’s not a crime to say ‘no.’  It’s not a shame or a sin; nor does it need some justification or explanation.  It’s okay to say “No,” kindly, gently, firmly, not with anger or frustration or guilt, but simply and gently, “No.” 
I am learning to think of ‘no’ as a choice.  “I choose not to.”  That’s easier to say, somehow.  It requires thought to make a choice.  And choices should be thoughtful.  ‘No’ is choice.  A liberating one.  And I think once one learns to say ‘No’ that ‘Yes’ becomes more celebratory, more ecstatic, more “YES!”

And so it goes.