My brother's project
My daughter's site
"All my critics are dead."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
We are married: June 29, 2003, 6 p.m. at the Hot Club. Photos and more later.
As I promised so many people at the reception, here's the poem that Joe and I read, alternating stanzas, at our wedding today. I wrote it 23 years ago. It's the first of many in an as-yet-unfinished series that's Penelope's story, her part in The Odyssey of Homer, a story largely untold.
He's gazed too long at the scattering mirrors
of shattering seas, at ladies flashing sequin truths,
sparks from the trail of his quest reflecting in their eyes,
mere scavengers of his own light.
Until at last lost, alone, worn raw,
He feels a call, at risk of self and soul,
the prize to make him whole:
One to belong with, discovering
delights of counterpoint,
exploring layers of sensation
each to both,
A dance of selves,
saying yes, whatever,
-- Sheila Lennon
You're free to use it, please credit the author.
12:35 a.m. I finally slept sometime after midnight.
Yesterday, we got the license and sent our changes and insertions in the ceremony to the judge.
Bought underwear. No shoes yet.
Later today, hair.
All from the natural food supermarket, so they will be delicious and not sugary sweet. My maid-of-honor daughter suggested that (in my still sleepless state, I'm not thinking); she's worth every one of the bumps on the way to the woman she is now.
Emailed the barbecue restaurant/caterer that we'll need small cake plates and twice the forks. The barbecue, in hindsight, is a terrific idea. Informal, inexpensive sturdy disposables.
Extra tables, a head table, tablecloths are locked in. The weather forecast looks good, saving us the serious cost of a tent.
The portajohns are arriving around 8 a.m. One can be locked and will come with a padlock. The other will have to be roped off.
The judge gave me a deadline of tomorrow night for the script. That's a day more than I expected, and I hope to sleep before then.
Still to do: Underwear, shoes, hair on Friday. Pot up the two flats of red and white impatiens as table decorations.
Call the bands.
8:30 a.m.: I have been up all night, poking into the fringes of the web, following the yellow brick road
Until now, I have functioned like an efficient little machine -- producing the news site, blogging, dealing with invitations (QuarkXPress meets Staples), caterer, bands, tent guy, handicapped-portajohn lady, eBay, suit, dress and shawl, flower lady, ringmaker, disposable cameras and judge.
Now I've stayed up all night, and feel crappy. I am torn between sopping up the beautiful morning, looking at what I had planned to do in the garden and on the underwear front but am too achy to, or going to bed and missing the best weather in months.
I need to keyboard the 23-year-old poem that foresaw Joe, which he heard for the first time last night, and everybody else will hear for the first time Sunday, a kickoff of Penelope's side of Homer's Odyssey.
Finally swept up by the archetype. The vortex is starting to whirl.
But I must call the handicapped-portajohn lady again, and the man with the tables and chairs. Will the first band let the second band use its amp? All should bring extension cords. Call the boat guy.
There is no cake. But there are still several days to decide that.
Wedding on deadline.
May 11 - Mother's Day