By Carl Phillips
As when a long forgetfulness lifts suddenly, and what
we'd forgotten—as we look at it squarely, then again
refuse to look—is our own
mostly like that, sex as both an act of defacement and—
as if the two were the same thing—votive offering,
insofar as the leaves
at least be said to be, as they kept falling the way leaves
do: volitionless, from different heights, and in the one direction.
The weather on Thursday was spectacular, neither too warm nor too cool, and my friend Mary from Ohio was visiting her mother nearby, so we met for a picnic and a walk at Cabin John Park, which was the perfect way to spend this afternoon. Most of the rest of my day involved a big cleaning project in the kitchen -- we took out the TV in there that we never turn on because it's not on the cable, which gave us more counter space and better lighting but exposed a lot that needed to be cleaned.
We watched the end of the White Sox loss to the Astros, boo, and the beginning of the Red Sox loss to the Rays, also boo, around the middle of the Seahawks loss to the Rams, boo. I could afford to jump around because I had my fannish friends' chat at 9, then What We Do in the Shadows at 10:30 (Catherine Cohen is not as sexy a siren as Elsa Pataky in Tidelands). From the Seattle Art Museum's Porcelain Room, which has more than a thousand pieces mostly made in Asia and exported to Europe: