of empty days
distant bird song
I rarely use my wall calendar these days. I still buy them, hang them up for the monthly photo, but sometimes months go by before I flip a page to the next, the squares remaining empty because I never write appointments on my wall calendar any more.
So, there is a year of empty days on my wall calendar. No dentist appointments. No birthday reminders. Nothing. Yet, my days are even fuller than they used to be - so full that there isn't time to write on my wall calendar which hangs near the land-line phone jack (which I never use, either).
The only reason I haven't disconnected the land-line telephone I rarely answer (which means if this is the only phone number you have for me, you need my cell #) is that I keep thinking that when the Big One hits Los Angeles and the cell towers are down, the electricity is out, and my cell phone battery is dead, at least I'll have my land-line. This may be silly, to keep paying this monthly fee, but for some reason, I sleep better.
over my bed...
family disaster plan
And, occasionally, the land-line is helpful. On Wednesday, I left my cell phone car charger in a rental car in Colorado Springs. My regular charger was temporarily misplaced (in a stray pocket of an unpacked suitcase), so my phone was very dead and I was working on a work project/data migration and was unaware it was dead. Meanwhile, my daughter was trying to reach me so she tried the land line and actually got me!
ready for takeoff...
his kindle shut down,
her book open
The point of all this rambling is that I've missed this journal. Facebook is easy - Twitter is easy. They only require short bursts to stay in touch - the odd haiku, the airport check-in, the photo posted from my tablet from a hotel window, the tweet about an upcoming haiku event, etc. The journal takes time, just like all of the essays, short stories, book reviews, and haibun I don't seem to write, being in all-haiku-all-the-time mode. Yet, when I look at my newly published haibun in Haibun Today, I wish I would write more of them. Writing more often here might help that. No promises, but we'll see...
a line of surfers
- Deborah P Kolodji