. . . “blue, blue . . .” I gradually wake out of sleep, it is still dark, check my cell phone it is 4:12 a.m. I trundle to the washroom and then out into the kitchen, pull a pear out of the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a bowl, pour out the last of the raspberry juice into a mug, draw a cup of cold water from the tap, put the kettle on for tea. I head back to the washroom with a couple of cups, and put Iodine drops into the cup of water, it is only supposed to be one drop, but it always splashes a little more, I take some medz and a vitamin, which I crunch, secretly wishing for those tasty liquid vitamins we used to have when we were kids. I head into the main room and fire up the computer in front of the large double doors/windows that look out on the balcony and a very large tree, this morning covered in snow in the darkness. I talk to Tango Blue and caress his ears, but just in my mind as he still won’t let me pet him, he is a Rescue Cat. I begin my morning computer ritual of reading my 2 main Hotmail accounts, Facebook, Craigslist (for Missed Connections, Pets, Apartment Rentals – Coops and Lofts, Antiques), then on to New Adventures of Queen Victoria (and I laugh a little) and then on to Pearls Before Swine (and I laugh a little more). All the while munching and drinking and watching the windows as the sky changes colours with the rising sun. Throughout the day I write wisps of poetry in my notebook . . .
grey and grey
calling Autumn . . .”
. . . I look at my writing schedule and then go back to bed. Six hours later I wake up, go to the kitchen for another glass of water. And back to the computer. First priority is Subterranean Blue Poetry, every month the magazine must be htmled in English and French, Book Review ads must be added to Subterranea . . . and The Book Reviewer, and this month’s journal needs to be Indexed. Then 2 Book Reviews must be written. We choose our books for Book Reviews from the latest, yet rare buys from Amazon or from The Word Bookstore (an indubitable social haunt, known as a great place for a date or a Christmas soiree with a fantastical selection of writings) or from the Chapbooks sent from the subscription to rob mclennan’s publishing house.
Occasionally some beautiful Poet launching a book of poetry gets in touch and pays us (me and Tango) $25 for a Book Review (we dance). Then we look at clients, for poetry book publishing, the Editing/Formatting/Uploading of poetry manuscripts, the creation of Book Covers, the writing of Book Reviews, the launch of social media ads and sometimes the creation of WebSites. And occasionally looking out and up at the sky . . .
. . . Then we look to the publishing of our own books, French translations, WebSite upgrades, updating and creating the series of Subterranean Blue journal mockups for poetry, photos, Featured Poets, Missed Connections, Of Poetic Interest . . . so that when that month comes up to publish, all that is left to do is the html and the Book Reviews. I check emails for submissions throughout the day. Someone gets in touch on Facebook from the African archipelago, I ask for a submission, and he sends me 6 beautiful black and white photos, I excitedly accept 2 for publication and promise to send along payment soonest. Two days before I heard from someone in India who emailed wondering when her submission is being published, I had said the winter 2018. I told her she was being published in January 2019 and it was technically the winter 2018, being from India I suspect she doesn’t understand that winter is from November to March, the flow of the season and hope she will accept my apologies. I love the Inbox, on special days I find poetry (o’, yes) and art (o’ yes, yes), all submissions and enquiries are read . . .
“is he the geist man?
are for Poets
the traveling Muse
services the room”
. . . I check my list of Subterranean Blue mockups to find that we are partially planned into 2020. (O’ yes!). I do a backup of the January 2019 Subterranean Blue Poetry html Issue, making certain to add 2019 to the January date in the attention line, just to remind myself that I am nearly 60 years old and not yet married with 2 children, do not own a home, do not own a Jeremy Mann painting or a Montauk sofa, have not appeared on the cover of The Rolling Stone . . . and attempting to accentuate the positive, remember I do have some antique chairs I picked up last Summer. I look out at the sky . . .
“brings love and poetry and blue
a bottle of wine
cast upon the waters, blue”
. . . Somewhere in the miasma of work I head out to the kitchen and put on a pot of homemade spaghetti, frying up the red peppers, onion and garlic, opening a can of stewed tomates and tomato paste. I open the can of cat food from the cupboard and head into the main room, filling up Tango Blue’s dish. Pick up the water bowl and go back to the kitchen and clean the bowl refilling with water. I head back into the main room and put the water bowl back beside the plate of food and talk to the cat, caressing his ears with my mind. I head back to the kitchen, stir the spaghetti sauce and take out half a garlic clove from the fridge, cutting it up, 3 cloves of garlic into some butter in the wok, let sizzle.
“a Westphalian strip house
the joy clips”
I head back to the computer. I head back to the kitchen, spread the garlic butter over a couple of pieces of grain bread, cut up some cheese and place over the bread slices, wrapping in foil and put in the oven. I bring a bowl of spaghetti sauce with the garlic bread back to the computer and sit and eat as I wander through the Internet. We have run out of cat treats, so I hurriedly suit up and head out into the darkness of evening to the Dollar Store. I pick up a few supplies, some sponges, some cans of coconut milk, some notebooks, some really cheap pens (that I later find don’t work), some cat litter, some cat food and of course the much-loved cat treats. We head back out into the night and around the corner home.
lives, lives of the Redeemer
reliquaries, that rest”
I call out to Tango Blue, kiss his ears in my mind. I go look at his dish and he has spread the kibble on the floor making a mote around the chunk of fish cat food. I tell the cat I have some treats for him tonight. Cat must have treats. I head to the kitchen take a pear from the fridge, wash it and cut it up into a bowl. I take the dessert back to the computer and proceed to contemplate work, wouldn’t it be nice to do some Kintsugi Quilt Repair in the evenings, if I could just schedule everything. Tango Blue curls up on the futon and later comes over to kiss my hands, I give him treats. I take out my notebook and begin to write into the night . . .
“o’ lonely girl
o’ lonely girl
am I calling you?
Barbizon . . .”
zzzz . . . “Barbizon” . . .
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . “blue” . . .
Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 37 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, a guide to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has 10 books awaiting publication with </u> Z is for Hospital</u> writing. She has produced 3 CD`s of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production. She is the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry, the CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records, the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts.