A wonderment . . .

Thursday, July 23, 2026. It's Thor's day . . . Easterlies and a mild – for Summer – day are in the forecasts for Green Country. Sun, summer clouds, low 90's are predicted for the afternoon in TulseyTown. Heat index in the upper 90's.

Light is in both the broken bottle and the diamond. – Mark Nepo

Today is the birthday of the novelist who gave us the detective Philip Marlow, Raymond Chandler, born in 1888 Chicago.

Have we stepped into a time machine? – Heather Cox Richardson, in Letters From An American.

Robert Reich is wondering if he's being unnecessarily alarmist about Ai. The Crash of 2026. Posted on substack today.

Having It Out With Melancholy. A poem by Jane Kenyon.

For The Poet

– after Louise Glück's autobiography for the Nobel Prize

What does not change are the terrible extended periods of silence, the anxiety. And, periodically, the elation of discovery, the strange embarking, the adventure that writing is, each poem a journey into unknown territory. Accompanied rarely and only by music. Mahler is good, the Tchiakovsky, Rachmaninoff, Russian Pantheon, as well as the Scandinavians, Leif Ove Andsnes, La Pietà, Bill Evans. Except when it is insanely easy, writing remains elusive. The random has a mind of its own. Always, I am someone longing to be a poet, to make something never heard before, to be taken out of myself. It’s a wonderment.

– jab