Thanks to the mothers and the motherless. Thanks to the Ho Chunk and the Crow. Thanks to the poultry, thanks to the yam, thanks to the farmer and the fisher. Thanks to the one who does. Thanks to the well-wisher.
Thanks to the fathers and the prodigal sons. Thanks to the bird and the bee. Thanks to mechanics, thanks to cows. Thanks to the comic and the rain-cloud and the sun and the humble and the proud.
Thanks to the painters and the crimson paint; thanks to the poets and the words. Thanks for the paper. Thanks for the pen. Thanks for erasers and time. Thanks for rivers flowing. Thanks for strength to climb.
We've reached the second anniversary of the Arem Arvinson Log, and by coincidence (sheer or shear?) this is post #222. Forgive my moment of self-congratulation, but I guess I'm fairly happy with the blog as a body of work. If you're a newcomer, a serious blog addict, or otherwise totally without a life of your own, have a look through the archives.
Thank you all for dropping by, and thanks especially to those who've given me a link from their own blog. Stop in whenever you're in the neighborhood.
It's not so bad when I think in terms of a poemor a drawing, but when I allow myself to begin to think of a book - a book of poems and drawings - any pretense of good housekeeping just goes to hell. Tables and desks piled too high for anything more, the floor a few layers thick, I wade through piles of paper, roll in words and images and daydreams, surface occasionally for food and drink (oh, yes, more drink please) and then slide back beneath the surface, where I can hold my breath for a very long time.
(and I'm pretty sure I was, a couple of days ago,) I've got to tell you of a wonderful experience I had recently. The Canon SD230 digital, which had served so well, was overcome by some supernatural sort of glitch which rendered it more or less a pain in the ass. Since it was three or four years out of warranty, I decided to call Canon, just to find out which current model might accept the same periferal gear I had purchased for the old camera. I clenched my jaw and prepared for the endless horror of talking to machines and waiting for hours which I was sure would follow. WRONG! Within moments, I was talking to Johanna, a real, live human who was totally competent, caring, and courteous. We talked about new cameras that might fill the bill and then Johanna asked about the nature of the problem I was having. I explained, and also explained that my warranty was long gone. Well, she said, I'm going to send you shipping labels and all you'll have to do is pack the camera, and shipping will be paid to our service center, where they'll either fix your camera or make you a very good deal on a replacement. That sounded good, but not as good as the result - within ten days, I received a refurbished SD630 (!), a much newer and much improved camera, at absolutely no cost to me!
To receive terrific service from an electronics company in an electronic age is not something I can take for granted, and I must certainly recommend to my friends, that if they are in the market for any sort of device that Canon makes, they should look no farther. Incidentally, mine is not a unique experience, as I told this story to a friend who, almost word for word, had the same story to tell about Canon.
Sunlight, thick as syrup and golden flowing on sweet afternoon of saxophone serenade but bass, the note of discord beneath and chill, the shadow where he stands as she leaves, again. Wind where music was and shrill, now the thinning light as metal on slate. Tin whistle shrill.
Ralph Murre is the author of "Crude Red Boat" and "The Price of Gravity, both books of poetry; author and illustrator of "Psalms", a book of poetry and art, co-author, (with Sharon Auberle)of "Wind Where Music Was", a book of poems of experience, and he is editor/publisher of several books of prose, poetry, photography, and drawings from Little Eagle Press, which he founded. Ordering information for these books is available from
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