Is it “everyday” or “every day”? There’s room for both, in this world.
“Miracles happen every day.”
“It was an everyday miracle when ‘Peppers’, the lovable duckling, took his first flight across Farmer Blackthorn’s pond!”
In any case, today’s miracle is that I’m posting a blog entry, after this many days of absence: 98. Squeak!
A partial list of other miracles which happen every day:
-Cakes also happen every day
Two weeks ago, I was traveling down to Indianapolis, midday, on the Megabus. I looked out the window as the day began to fade away, the shadows to lengthen, the dusk-light to dance, et cetera. The sun emerged from behind the clouds. For some reason, I was able to look directly at it without discomfort for a few moments. [No: I have not received new, bionic eyeballs via mail order.] [Which…hold on, I’m Googling “bionic eyeballs”. Hey, we’ve got bionic eyeballs now! Neat! Also: Aaaaaaaaaaaa!]
The sun is Every Day, and also Everyday. I don’t lend it much thought. But for some reason, at that particular moment, the hard fact of THE SUN was borne in upon me like a–well, a solar flare, is what. It’s so big that we can see it with the naked eye, it makes sugar maples grow, it warms my face in the summer, and it’s 93 MILLION MILES AWAY. WHAT IS THAT. WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT.
Recently, NASA was able to capture its first 360 degree image of the sun, via two probes it sent out in 2006. This is apparently a very big deal. For instance, we will no longer be taken by surprise if a “farside active region” decides to launch a “billion-ton cloud of plasma” at us! Yaaaaaay!
Here is the image from the probes:
Here is a NASA artist’s rendering:
I love astronomical artists’ renderings
Here on Earth’s surface, in Chicago, it’s been snowy. Last Tuesday night, Jessica and I watched the snow careen by in the front window like cannonfire. I grew up in the Midwest; I have seen snow and ice before. I have never seen anything like this. Our street is like the surface of the moon.
It snowed again yesterday, and then–again–this afternoon, flakes with the density of sawdust, which I brushed off my coat at intervals to keep it from piling up. When I walked down the street after work I couldn’t see three blocks away; instead, there was a wall of white, which only cleared as I approached it and walked through.
I passed these bushes on Logan Boulevard:
“There’s nowhere for it to go,” said a woman I work with, of the new snow. There are still piles as high my waist in plenty of places, impassable street corners, buried cars. I don’t know what the lesson is, when there’s nowhere else for the snow to go.
Everything happens at once.
This poem is a bruiser, but it’s so good, everyone; I’ve gotta.
EVERYONE: You’ve gotta?
I hate my heart What is this wild and bad
renunciation I hate my heart Why
does it hurt me even now after so
much raking over after so much ruck
It’s hard to call my heart it speaking of
part of me that is almost all of me
because what is there that is not my heart
Tucked beneath my breathing lungs it beats
it breathes it is my thoughts what thought do I
have that isn’t folded inside my heart
Is there such a thought a heartless thought I
don’t have one When I walk I carry what
My heart on the stick of my body Or
my courage in the sticking place O screw
don’t I have the courage of my good heart
Is this my scarecrow longing for his heart
I’m scared of my heart the old rags and bones
the rage a rage for order pale Ramon
Even though I’ve raked my heart it rages
Beshrew me I know my heart is good Shrew
little sparrow will you come to my hand
O screw I eat crow I crow my heart out
Am I the shrew to it or it to me
To no one but my heart or it to me