Cup XLIII: "Haiku!" "Gesundheit!"

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: Guitarcraft Circle of Seattle, "Ikada Jima"

Time: Evening

Yet one more possibly significant development, as the days shorten and grow cooler: Haiku (the sensibility, not merely the form) seems to have re-entered my life.

It's a hesitant re-entry, one foot only halfway over the threshold. I get the feeling that if I move too quickly toward it, I'll scare it away.

It started in September, on the first day I sat in with the high school English class.

morning lessons;
crawling across my black boot,
a black cricket

And then, for weeks ... nothing. Not so much writer's block as insight block.

I used to get haiku moments much more regularly. Had a few of the results published here and there under the primary pen name, which was kind of cool, and took part in several online discussion groups on the topic.

Oh, and on the topic of 5/7/5 (syllables, that is): Used to write that way all the time. Still do sometimes. More often than not, I don't.

Then the moments ... well, went away. More likely, they were there and I just wasn't paying attention. But of late, I've tried to be more of the momentarian I used to try to be.

Last night, out of town and alone at dinner (except for the moments when my booth was co-occupied by the resident elf, who is six years old and likes Junie B. Jones and eats her dinner from her "funny bowl with a nose on it") , I began rereading "The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa," edited by Robert Hass.

(And yes, the funny bowl does have a nose on it. "What are you eating?" I asked. "I don't know," she said. "I've never had it before.")

I skipped Basho, although I'll go back to him later. I spent most of the time on Buson, then got about halfway through Issa. Three different styles, each with much to recommend it. I leave it to you to find your own favorite(s).

Then, I read a haiku-infused post in Midnight Anchorage, which is a young blog (and already one of my favorites) filled with words both old and new. Synchronicity.

Maybe it was the reacquaintance with the classics. Maybe I'm just paying more attention. But on the way to a harp concert this evening, there it was:

thin autumn light;
how will the squirrel stay warm
with half a tail?

If nothing else, it's good practice in awareness. If something else ... well, I suppose that's not entirely up to me to define.

Tonight's story:

Lafcadio Hearn, "Yuki-Onna"

Cup VIII: The Past, in Passing

Tea: Moroccan Rose and Mint

Music: Howard Jones, "No One is to Blame"

Time: Late night into early morning

Going to crowded street festivals alone is both strange and settling.

I talk to strangers -- a necessity for a freelancer. The next person I chat up just might have the greatest story idea ever, or maybe just an interesting story to borrow, adapt and weave into something fictional.

But in the next moment, I slip into observer mode and become almost invisible. It's an oddment, though, that I always seem to be walking against the stream of people when I'm in that frame of mind and sense.

Last night (or earlier tonight, if you will) at the Plaza Art Fair, I was in sociable form early on. I joined mailing lists and entering drawings for free tickets to hear chamber music or a symphony orchestra, take in "The Nutcracker" or a Broadway musical revue, see a play at the Missouri Rep -- or maybe something a little edgier at the Unicorn (or perhaps, if I'm really lucky, a play about flesh-eating zombies.) I'm not even that big an opera fan, but I'd be up for some Puccini or Mozart if I happened to score free tickets. And while the Shakespeare productions every summer are already free, reserved seats -- not to mention guaranteed parking, which can be a pain -- would be pretty cool, too.

I ran into someone I hadn't seen for several years, only to find out she works for my cousin. Two minutes after that, alone once more, the switch flipped and I was on the outside looking in.

Sometimes I notice faces, sometimes something in a frame, sometimes a snatch of conversation. This time, it was a swish of red hair, a few inches past shoulder length.

We passed, going opposite directions on Nichols Road. She was with her family, perhaps part of a larger group. It took a few seconds for the memory to kick in.

We dated -- twice, I think -- more than twenty years ago. Never a gigantic spark, which is one reason there weren't more dates, but I was on sort of a mission to go out with every attractive redhead on campus.

Hours later, I still can't recall her name. Surprising. I'm usually good with names. There was a moment, when I was still trying to figure out who she was, in which I thought she might have recognized me. If she did, she didn't show it. No offense taken; I look a good deal different now.

She has aged beautifully -- but her smile still doesn't touch her eyes.