Thanks for the poem. Did I send you the thing I wrote about crickets? I can't remember. I think I did. Anyway, the poem you sent struck some chords and opened others. It's been such a long time since I listened to the Writer's Almanac. Not that it's an essential part of life, and I'm suddenly thinking that really my life should be full of and defined by other things. But I remember years ago I used to listen to the Writer's Almanac every day on the way to school: it came on KBYU every day at 8:55, and my 20th Century Composition class started at 9:15, and I'd always be running late so I'd usually just be a block away from my house when it would come on, and I'd hear the theme music and then Garrison Keillor's voice and I'd relax and reflect a little, and that's how I'd like the Writer's Almanac in my life, something that accompanies it and gives a comforting sidenote and allows reflection while I'm about the business of things that I've decided matter and are my focus.
Want to hear something weird? I sprayed under the fridge last night; it may have killed some of the crickets, but I don't think so... several came hoping out and lay twitching, and I escorted them out the door and felt smug. The room was quiet last night, but I woke up this morning thinking that for some reason I really had done something wrong, that the crickets really were somehow good luck or good company, and couldn't shake that feeling for most of the day. The fact that I have this feeling worries me as well. It doesn't fit into my worldview particularly neatly. There's another cricket under the fridge now, but I'm reluctant to evict him. He is reluctant to make noise. It's almost like we're now stepping lightly over an argument we both feel sheepish about.