The Art of the Moment

Not-so-conspicuous consumption

Liz Bennefeld — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 15:49:01 +0000

I am so very pleased that I finally have a computer to replace my old laptop, which has suffered greatly over the past few years. Especially, I missed the “x” key, which Samantha jumped on, just a few months after we brought her home, and broke entirely. The nice thing about tax refund time is having all the resources gathered together at once, enabling one to address the larger or more costly lacks in one’s life.

My list included notebook computer, replacement battery for the old Lenovo, a winter parka or hooded coat, shoes (my having worn out and tossed away all but my “funeral” shoes), a frying pan and covered wok, and undergarments. I’ve now purchased all but two of the categories on my list, and I am pleased.

I am surprised by how much larger the notebook computer seems. The keys are large, and there is a real keypad, for a change. I had missed that on both the netbook and laptop. Not that they’ve all come home to roost, mind you! UPS tracker shows my battery as wandering the streets of Salt Lake City, looking for eastern North Dakota.

It’s odd, though, what one will do without for the sake of immediate convenience. Priorities are not always as one might expect.

Real Life

Liz Bennefeld — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 04:46:00 +0000

RL has intervened, but only for a little while longer.

November 30 – NaNoWriMo poem

Liz Bennefeld — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 05:19:44 +0000

“Waiting for Snow”

The old crescent moon

shrinks, hiding among branches

stripped by winter’s winds.

The Birthday Card

Liz Bennefeld — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 05:01:02 +0000

one more card to say
that mere words cannot express
the depths of his love

And to think that at one time I was convinced that marriage was not for me. Mine is the most wonderful husband in the world. Yes, really!

Autumn Promises

Liz Bennefeld — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 05:45:39 +0000

Filtered autumn light,
speak to me of summer, gone,
and winter yet to come.
Color my vision with golden glory
and fill my nostrils with the scent
of those last flowers
clinging to vines
close by the window.

Speak to me of time past
and time that’s yet to be,
tomorrow’s promises.