Monday, Monday … a depressing day poem-wise but otherwise I’ve gotten a lot done. I’m building a personal website; just because it’s been too long since I’ve coded anything web related. I’m using HTML 5, semantic tags, and 100% css layout and formatting. I’m an old-school tr,td coder, so it’s a change long past due. I am also generating almost everything from a SQL Server 2012 database: pages, tags, content, and css. It’s my own personal content management system (CMS).
A step today was an attempt to create and populate a css repository. I have tables for property class, property, and possible values. The possible value thing is iffy as how does one store 16 million possible color values and why? This will be a loose relationship, a drop-down pick’em tool but probably not enforced. Anyway, it’s a start. I created a quick and dirty excel file from a web page copy then imported this into my property table. I discovered the SQL Import Export Wizard is basically a trimmed down SSIS data flow. Fun stuff with those silly truncation errors that seem to catch all programmers until they learn the input column widths need defining if the column width above the default of 50.
On to poeming:
For today’s prompt, write a distance poem. As a runner, I automatically think of running when I think distance. But hey, there’s long distance relationships. Or why not get beyond geographic distance and consider distance in terms of time or emotional distance. Or some other interpretation.
My destination is too abstract, too distant, unfamiliar
Highways look clean on maps
A thick red line with lots of room to pass
No problems going slow or fast
But maps don’t demarcate teenagers, Bubbas, instigators, or grandmas
There are no flashing black lines on maps
To warn you of the Conga lines of trucks
I wonder what Wendy is like now, in person
I haven’t seen her since the last time we slept together
I was nine and she a mature ten
Two families of three kids packed in Grandma and Grandpa’s little home
But we’re ready, for the road
The campsites and cheap motels
A cross-country Odyssey
Surfing the amber waves and
Lumbering over the purple giants in the old blue, 2002
The quest for morning coffee in the wilderness
The destination steaks and brew, not cookies and milk
The thing about this trip is it is sort of true but not quite. I slept with her once, at her place in Myrtle Beach. I was seven and she was eight. The last time we’d seen each other, I think I was 10 or 11. We’d called over the years, or our parents did. At Christmas and stuff. We didn’t travel across country but from Atlantic Canada to South Carolina via … we skipped the major cities as much as possible. We did drive by Philly and Baltimore, and we took a bus into D.C. We drove downtown Atlanta Sunday morning. 16 lanes of highway is best admired when nearly empty. We saw very few trucks. My image comes from the many times I’ve driven through Chicago. The Dan Ryan, East-West bottleneck. The idea of a trip came to me from a friend’s recent move to Oregon. I thought for a second, had no images, and this 2011 trip came flooding back.
Poem number two is much less true.
Sipping Manhattans, outside at Angelo’s
Because everybody’s eyes are glossy in the sun
I look into every Yellow cab that drives by, hoping
Your blond hair shines through the charcoaled windows.
If I could see it again, touch it
Watch it rise and fall on the blankets, as you sleep
You always were the heart of the bed
I hope you write at Christmas, a letter, not a card
Like we used to send to our friends and relatives
Summaries of our lives, the annual roundup of memories
Letting them know what we’d done with ourselves
Letting them know what they were missing
I’ve been making Manhattans lately. I thought about this and why someone might be sipping them with a reason of distance. Nothing but cliché popped into my head, so I ran with it.