Julia Park Tracey

So on my way from taking one child to the orthodontist I was narrowly missed by a driver who blew through a red light in Oakland’s wacky Chinatown/produce district (honk if you love double-parked trucks with dead pigs falling out the back). He missed killing me by maybe one second and maybe three feet, and the muthafuckah just tore right through. I had turned my head and just from the corner of my eye saw him, managed to slam the brakes, (amazingly) wasn’t rear-ended either, and off he went. I usually have a kid in the front seat with me. I usually have 2 or 3 with me, in fact.…

Well, I guess I live too much in my brain and not enough in the real world, but hey. Whatever. I guess I never did mention the bead workshop here on The Muse. But there you have it. You know as much about it now as anyone. I did make it to work and I did update my blog and I do still have the cold, but I didn’t do lots of other things. But it’s a new year = no fear. Not beating up self over what I have not done, contrary to the Hail Mary. If life is an abacus, which it isn’t, but play along, won’t you?…

I’m fighting a cold and have missed several key events in the past few days, including my great aunt’s book party (grr!), a day of work (sorry, Andrea!) and the first night of my women’s program tonight. I’m still sneezing but will probaby drag myself to work tomorrow and to my first writing program tomorrow night. To follow up on the prayer-bead workshop that I mentioned before, dear friend Erin and I and a long-lost high school friend, Deana Pervis, (who happens to be a friend of a friend for Erin’s, small Island!) went to Eleanor Wiley’s for the bead workshop and had a lovely time chatting, talking about Eleanor’s…

(or, Found Poem, with Edits) The bone-pot simmers, the lemon blossom fades.The last leaf falls. Regardez, beside the line of rosesbraving the November air,just beyond the sage-green shutters to wherea would-be novelist blackens white pages in her chill room. See you all when Winter’s come. *Poet Olga Broumas originated the idea of poetry as “lumens,” the unit of light that comes from a candle or lightbulb. Little poems = little rays of light.Advice for Aspiring Writers: See more light. Read more poets.

Ever eat the food from Fortune Cookie? Webster Street, Alameda. Yum. Apropos of my last post, about No Fear, my fortune cookie from Fortune Cookie last night read: Act boldly, and unseen forces will come to your aid. Advice to Aspiring Writers: The Universe speaks. Pay attention.