July 4, 1999

Yesterday I fell victim to what turns out to be one of the oldest hoaxes on the internet. Hey, did you hear the government's gonna start charging for email? I bought it completely. What a dope. I hang my head in shame.

At Mass this morning Fr. Murray prayed that we be able to recognize all that happens in this life as a gift...even when we have a hard time calling it a gift. At first thought this seems an unlikely outcome. I've lately been through some minor storms that I wouldn't naturally see as gifts. But if you think about it...

Our life is short; we spend it shuffling and rushing, filling it with stuff that, if we thought about it, we really don't need. And because our life is short, everything that happens - the tiniest or most irritating things - can become infinitely rich and worthy of attention. "So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow..." My time is a finite ocean to sail, to swim, to write bad poems about.

So today I did some laundry, fiddled with The Closet, gave aid and comfort to the cat. Dominic got me out of the house and into the mall this afternoon. I had a chance to see the neighborhood - kind of fresh and scrubbed behind the ears. Not much texture, but pleasant enough. This evening I took another step towards claiming this place as my own. I managed to cook up a mess of capellini for dinner - and shared it with Jay. Got it right, too.

It's apparent to a few people that I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet. To which I say, You're absolutely right. The reason is simple and obvious. This is one place I don't have to leave. And some of my friends are here.

The sun's not even close to gone, but I'm starting to hear deep booms of what sounds like m-80s. The cat does not like this noise. I remember her terror back in Joliet when we lived across from the casinos and they'd set off an occasional volley of thunder and color right over our heads. The gentle things of earth do not appreciate this human show. I took some time today to think about freedom and its absence, pondered some of the "pleasures of peace". Kenneth Koch has a good poem on that.