Rosey-posey, dappled pink moon, full as a court duchess at a pastry table, hanging low in the western sky; it was a startling vision, the full moon just setting as the sun arose. The dawn was roseate, blushing at the morning sight of couples rousing, tossing off covers, readying for the day---Madame Luna caught the sun's flushed bewilderment and laughed, for what did you expect in the early residue of night? It is her belief, you see, that the day hides more than in the night, when faces are unmasked, when quieter desires become apparent. During the day, we wear suits and bindings. After sundown, well.
This gorgeous sight of lunar pink showed the moon's markings as striations and stipples, and I wished I wasn't driving, for seeing this great airship would have occupied a morning's time. Fingers of clouds stretched from the east, reaching in peach and rose colors for the zenith of the sky, where other billowing legions clustered, holding the contents of a coming storm. It wasn't a bad drive; when I turned north and the moon was hidden by city buildings, I forgot the descent of the pink empress and concentrated on snagging a reasonable parking spot on the street.
In class, we talked of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic until an announcement came over the p.a. that all after-school activities were canceled due to the impending weather. Impending? Let's look. Nothing but dark, low clouds slowly advancing towards the school from the lake, it could get here, it couldn't, do they have a premonition that we are missing? On the Promethean board, I pulled up a local weather station--the kids were amazed at the satellite photos showing the advance of the snowstorm--and then wham! The outside windows were assaulted by a blast of pure happiness, for the kids yelped and ran to the window to see. SNOW! It's snowing! The houses across the street were temporarily invisible, and only the red glow of rear lights could tell you where a car was. Alright, skedaddle back to your seats, this needs a plan.
Get math done up while I call a few parents to tell them that their child is coming home right away, then, we are getting ready early. I want everyone bundled, wrapped, with a hat, gloves, and no complaining about zippers on coats. If it gets too bad out, we may be staying here overnight, so I can teach you at two o'clock in the morning. Yay, said the kids. Not the reaction I was expecting, but the idea of raiding the cafeteria for dinner was a dreamed-of adventure. There's pizza down there.
Teachers were scooted out as the building was closing at 3, and just as well; the number of car accidents was phenomenal in the two mile stretch I needed to travel. One side of the street was locked with cars; blue and red lights flashed from police vehicles, it was like driving over applesauce on ice; everywhere everywhere everywhere, the streets were jammed as all employees were trying to leave the city at once, with major routes snaffled, and the Skyway closed. A nine- minute drive took me a half hour, with diversions through neighborhoods I've never seen. But Rudy, my car, and I got home. Rudolph Valentino. No, I don't know why, it just happened.
This is the vacuum created by a snowstorm: no sound, all the traffic that runs by year round is muffled or simply not there. It's a rare quiet in the apartment, interrupted only by the thunder of metal behemoths eagerly pushing the snow into mannerly furrows. A few lights on downtown buildings are showing, but the grey-orange sky flurries still are blanketing the cars in the lot, turning them into squarish marshmallows, at least in my view from the ninth floor. If the moon is still full, no one could tell. But, you know, if you put a spoon under your pillow at night, it's guaranteed to present you grandly with a snow day. Retired teachers are not allowed to clap gleefully. No clapping. Stop that.
Wowsers! Lightning just crackled, followed by thunder; thundersnow happens in a lake effect storm and the city lights have disappeared again, so maybe I won't even need a spoon.
I and the cats are warm, the millepedes are warm, the snails are warm; I imagine any sneaky spiders are warm. Do you know if you are loved? I do, and am. A student came in with her mother at 11:10 today; her stomach had been hurting earlier, but now that she was feeling better, she asked her mother to bring her to school. The class is a safe haven, she hugged me when she saw me. That, ladies and gents, is my job, my main purpose, for if you are scared, how the heck can you learn anything when you are on tenterhooks and six years old? The student twirled around me, a small moon orbiting a planetary teacher.
Good night, good night, good people. And you are good; and it is so. See past the masks of daytime, and contemplate the freedom offered by setting suns and rising moons, by lightning in snowstorms, by words and wishes. The world hurts less with your magnificent spirit. Sleep, dog; sleep cat; sleep child. I will watch over.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Sunday, December 11, 2016
O Canada
Moving to Canada been on your mind lately? Thinking about butter tarts, hmmm? Maybe knowing that Canada legalized same sex marriages about ten years ago would allow sleep to come sooner at night? Tired of those pesky pennies? How about some excellent chocolate from England, Ireland? And speaking of chocolate, you're just dying for one of those Kinder eggs, illegal here in the US; forget the candy and go buy a US of A legal semi-automatic AK-47, you wanna live dangerously already. How about adding a /u/ after an /o/ in several words, rounds out that flat Americaan accent that causes Canadians to double over in guffaws, but that's probably as snarky as they get. They'll slap you on the back and buy you a brew to show no hard feelings.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Merry Glittermess
This happens every year, this explosion of light in my students' eyes; as soon as the first kid trotted into the room, I could see they were three inches above the linoleum. Others followed, bouncing and bobbing like sea buoys in a mild storm, whispering, the whites of their eyes showing clear circles around pupils. What? What?? The adult wanted to be ready for whatever onslaught was brewing--did someone get slugged on the bus? Did you "find" a cell phone? Was there a man at the corner giving out five-dollar bills?
"It's DECEMBER," said one little girl, "SANTA'S COMING!" The crackle of information sizzled through the telepathic cable system that each kid has connecting to the other, I saw blue sparks of electricity running through invisible wires like you would see with the old, electric streetcars. Something was burning, I believe it was my retinas from looking at the gleaming, half-toothy smiles oddly reminiscent of staring into the sun. Breakfast was a frosted cinnamon thing and sugar, AKA cereal; these children were running 20 amps on my 15 amp breaker and would soon accelerate to plugging in the hair dryer while running the microwave. Certain relay switch death.
"Do you believe in Santa, Ms. Coburn?" Definitely, or how else would you explain the new floormats for my car, just what I wanted last year? Why, when I was a kid....but they weren't listening. The new info that Ms. Coburn believes in Santa snapped like a whip, verification for the wiser ones who were having a hard time standing up to the naysayers. The Adult: sit down. Finish up breakfast. We have work to do today, and I would like to give you some free time if we get it done. Deal. But after the last child sat down to continue eating orange and green cereal, there was a happy, collective sigh of I love Decembers.
Just like any holiday, not all of them celebrate; there are two new Burmese children that aren't too sure what's going on but if it means sweets and paper cutting, yabba dabba do! And at the other end of the spectrum are the kids who get nothing through neglect or poverty or illness; every family in my group is listed under the hardship of poverty. I have two who fit the extreme, both sweethearts, a boy and a girl. The boy tries to be pragmatic, "We ain't having nothing cause my Mom just got out of the hospital and we need the money for other things." Mom did indeed come out from the hospital, but there is a bit more to the story that I don't want to say. It isn't to his advantage. The little girl still hopes and talks of Santa.
The energy flows and needs to be funneled; what better place than through making stuff, cutting paper, given temporary control over a glue stick, having a finished product. I only had black construction paper, so we made snowmen out of some copy paper and used white crayons to make snowflakes and drifts. They had a lot of fun doing it, and the activity channeled the Christmas juggernaut into a nice scene to take home. A nice, black scene. How can this be made more holiday-like and less Funeral March of the Snowman Army? I broke out the glitter.
This is a brave thing, for glitter is the most tenacious, maladroit, insidious notion on the Periodic Table; it has been declared by the building engineers as a plot to drive them to early retirement. It isn't the sharp-eged glass of diamantine days, thank heavens, but is a softer, more finely ground plastic film that has a static charge making it stick to any other electrically charged object, like my fingers, clothing, hair, garbage can liner, and plastic spoon. What's she doing? She's got GLITTER--which is just as exciting as illegal fireworks in the middle of the street. They bent their heads down diligently over their work, showing me how good they are so that I wouldn't be interrupted while dispensing glue and fairy dust.
I put a few swirls on each picture, gingerly tapping the container just enough to add a bit of zip, not introduce mayhem. Each was ruffled gently to release the excess over a folded paper, then set to dry amid murmurs of That's So Beautiful, said in hushed tones as reverence for the demigods of holiday sparkle. They didn't look too bad, but I have to find a color of construction paper other than black. I want to show them how to make Christmas loop chains that don't appear as Victorian mourning banners.
Here's a theory of why we like it so much, according to website Mental Floss: "According to researchers from the University of Houston and Ghent University in Belgium, our impulse for shiny things comes from an instinct to seek out water. The theory is that our need to stay hydrated has kept mankind on the lookout for shimmering rivers and streams. And thanks to natural selection, that’s left us with an innate preference for things that sparkle." Does this explain the popularity of craft stores? Lizard brain with a glue gun and a debit card, watch out.
Mild night, unless the temperature drops the lake will not freeze over, leaving Buffalo, New York in open season for lake effect snow. My kids are wishing for snow so much, I know that when the first flakes come that there will be a rush for the windows with squeals of "It's snoooowing!" I have stocked up on scarves, but for some reason, hats are harder to come by this year at the thrift shop, maybe because last winter was pretty warm and people just didn't use them? We'll just bundle up, I've already given away coats and mittens.
The busy time of the holidays are upon us, we will be making menorahs and spinning dreidels, learning what traditions other cultures celebrate. In this neighborhood, the big day is January 6th, Three Kings Day which is still the day the Eastern Christian Church recognizes as Christmas; the Western Christian Church didn't change to December 25 until the 4th century. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar; Europe, Arabia, and Africa. Horse, camel, and elephant. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh; wonder if there was any glitter in there.
Night is a wonderful time for stories, I think of how the telling of bedtime stories began as a method of lullaby, a calming antidote that gave the busy mind something quiet to think about, to ruminate before hitting the pillow. How many of us read before bed? Even five minutes is enough to signal that there is a change in the tides, the ebb has become the flow, pushing sand and shells into breakwater design. Iridescent fishes of thoughts flutter through layers, till the unconscious falls into depths not witnessed by day.
Sleep all, here is a story for you. Susan.
"It's DECEMBER," said one little girl, "SANTA'S COMING!" The crackle of information sizzled through the telepathic cable system that each kid has connecting to the other, I saw blue sparks of electricity running through invisible wires like you would see with the old, electric streetcars. Something was burning, I believe it was my retinas from looking at the gleaming, half-toothy smiles oddly reminiscent of staring into the sun. Breakfast was a frosted cinnamon thing and sugar, AKA cereal; these children were running 20 amps on my 15 amp breaker and would soon accelerate to plugging in the hair dryer while running the microwave. Certain relay switch death.
"Do you believe in Santa, Ms. Coburn?" Definitely, or how else would you explain the new floormats for my car, just what I wanted last year? Why, when I was a kid....but they weren't listening. The new info that Ms. Coburn believes in Santa snapped like a whip, verification for the wiser ones who were having a hard time standing up to the naysayers. The Adult: sit down. Finish up breakfast. We have work to do today, and I would like to give you some free time if we get it done. Deal. But after the last child sat down to continue eating orange and green cereal, there was a happy, collective sigh of I love Decembers.
Just like any holiday, not all of them celebrate; there are two new Burmese children that aren't too sure what's going on but if it means sweets and paper cutting, yabba dabba do! And at the other end of the spectrum are the kids who get nothing through neglect or poverty or illness; every family in my group is listed under the hardship of poverty. I have two who fit the extreme, both sweethearts, a boy and a girl. The boy tries to be pragmatic, "We ain't having nothing cause my Mom just got out of the hospital and we need the money for other things." Mom did indeed come out from the hospital, but there is a bit more to the story that I don't want to say. It isn't to his advantage. The little girl still hopes and talks of Santa.
The energy flows and needs to be funneled; what better place than through making stuff, cutting paper, given temporary control over a glue stick, having a finished product. I only had black construction paper, so we made snowmen out of some copy paper and used white crayons to make snowflakes and drifts. They had a lot of fun doing it, and the activity channeled the Christmas juggernaut into a nice scene to take home. A nice, black scene. How can this be made more holiday-like and less Funeral March of the Snowman Army? I broke out the glitter.
This is a brave thing, for glitter is the most tenacious, maladroit, insidious notion on the Periodic Table; it has been declared by the building engineers as a plot to drive them to early retirement. It isn't the sharp-eged glass of diamantine days, thank heavens, but is a softer, more finely ground plastic film that has a static charge making it stick to any other electrically charged object, like my fingers, clothing, hair, garbage can liner, and plastic spoon. What's she doing? She's got GLITTER--which is just as exciting as illegal fireworks in the middle of the street. They bent their heads down diligently over their work, showing me how good they are so that I wouldn't be interrupted while dispensing glue and fairy dust.
I put a few swirls on each picture, gingerly tapping the container just enough to add a bit of zip, not introduce mayhem. Each was ruffled gently to release the excess over a folded paper, then set to dry amid murmurs of That's So Beautiful, said in hushed tones as reverence for the demigods of holiday sparkle. They didn't look too bad, but I have to find a color of construction paper other than black. I want to show them how to make Christmas loop chains that don't appear as Victorian mourning banners.
Here's a theory of why we like it so much, according to website Mental Floss: "According to researchers from the University of Houston and Ghent University in Belgium, our impulse for shiny things comes from an instinct to seek out water. The theory is that our need to stay hydrated has kept mankind on the lookout for shimmering rivers and streams. And thanks to natural selection, that’s left us with an innate preference for things that sparkle." Does this explain the popularity of craft stores? Lizard brain with a glue gun and a debit card, watch out.
Mild night, unless the temperature drops the lake will not freeze over, leaving Buffalo, New York in open season for lake effect snow. My kids are wishing for snow so much, I know that when the first flakes come that there will be a rush for the windows with squeals of "It's snoooowing!" I have stocked up on scarves, but for some reason, hats are harder to come by this year at the thrift shop, maybe because last winter was pretty warm and people just didn't use them? We'll just bundle up, I've already given away coats and mittens.
The busy time of the holidays are upon us, we will be making menorahs and spinning dreidels, learning what traditions other cultures celebrate. In this neighborhood, the big day is January 6th, Three Kings Day which is still the day the Eastern Christian Church recognizes as Christmas; the Western Christian Church didn't change to December 25 until the 4th century. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar; Europe, Arabia, and Africa. Horse, camel, and elephant. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh; wonder if there was any glitter in there.
Night is a wonderful time for stories, I think of how the telling of bedtime stories began as a method of lullaby, a calming antidote that gave the busy mind something quiet to think about, to ruminate before hitting the pillow. How many of us read before bed? Even five minutes is enough to signal that there is a change in the tides, the ebb has become the flow, pushing sand and shells into breakwater design. Iridescent fishes of thoughts flutter through layers, till the unconscious falls into depths not witnessed by day.
Sleep all, here is a story for you. Susan.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Flip Book
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Winter, spring, summer, fall, winter, spring, summer, fall. January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, January. Midnight, noon, second shift, third. Day. Night. Quarter of Ten.
I look up at the ceiling into the darkness as I lay on my back in bed, and think that it could be 2002, 1998, 1987, 1979, 1963, 1951. It's the same darkness that hangs at the edge of the universe of ceiling, as if you were looking into infinity, could reach an arm into it and touch the hem of heaven or hell. This one is occasionally semi-illuminated by reflective flashes of the traffic that runs by on the highway, tires hitting pavement till 3 or 4 in the morning. The only time it is truly quiet is when there is a snowstorm, which muffles sound except for the metal monsters that scrape the roads clear of snow and ice, spilling it over the side of the raised highway and down onto the parking lot.
What strikes me is the sameness, the sameness of waiting for the weekend, or this Monday, or the month when strawberries come. People, including me, are talking about the snow now hitting the midwest, soon to be in my city; it comes every year, the earth shifts a bit and gently slides us into somnambulant hibernation. We are a bit sleepier, hot tea-ier, book read-ier, close the door-ier than in high summer. Still, there are gnomons to watch for, holidays, meetings, events, or wishes unmet that swing us trapeze-style, from Sunday to Wednesay, to TGIF, and Saturday, made for markets.
It's like a flip book, these pages of days and divisions created by humans as a way of order, yet I wonder, how many Saturdays have I lived through? Could I stand another Sunday? The weekends were horrifying when I was a child, I spent most of the time holding my breath until the inevitable Monday morning when my father would go back to work but return at half-past five. I never slept in the dark then; it was only after I was married that a night light wasn't necessary for me to sleep.
I have planted gardens, raised a child, given to the homeless, painted walls, learned languages, been in a forest fire, memorized poems, made friends, created various pieces of art, rescued cats, lived through loss, believed in God, had measles, rescued a bat, learned how to flip an omelet, driven a stick shift, sawed wood, started campfires, totaled cars twice, ridden horses, earned a master's degree, flown through a thunderstorm, changed the oil, been foreman on a jury, dug for fossils, saw my son get married wonderfully, been shaken by a ghost, made pies, gotten tattooed, given away money, studied wild mushrooms, stepped on a stingray, picked up snakes, and have beginner ukulele skills. This is only the stuff I can tell you. Yet, how does that darkness look the same? How does the sameness overwhelm the differences?
Maybe it's meant to be blank, a soothing deep allowing reflection, wishes, dreams, a mumbled prayer. Most people live regular lives just getting through one day to the next, wondering what's for supper, very few reach the realm of fame, we just hear more about them through media. That doesn't mean you aren't unique, much to the contrary. You know you're smarter than most, maybe brilliant with numbers, music, textiles, art, film, baking, nurturing, computers, teaching others, saving lives; it's what humans do. Keep doing.
I had to learn to let the night envelope me, and now view it as relief, a time for dreams and healing of the day. The tea is in the cup, with orange blossom honey; I look at the city lights and imagine the people who are out on the illuminated streets, visiting cafes, bars, coffee houses, extending their lives into the evening hours, when smell becomes more intense in the clearer air, hearing is amplified. Instincts are sharper. There will be a time when their heads gratefully hit a pillow, their blankets a glad enchantment.
Should I sing you to dreams? Here is your story, yours alone. Good night, dear, brave heart.
I look up at the ceiling into the darkness as I lay on my back in bed, and think that it could be 2002, 1998, 1987, 1979, 1963, 1951. It's the same darkness that hangs at the edge of the universe of ceiling, as if you were looking into infinity, could reach an arm into it and touch the hem of heaven or hell. This one is occasionally semi-illuminated by reflective flashes of the traffic that runs by on the highway, tires hitting pavement till 3 or 4 in the morning. The only time it is truly quiet is when there is a snowstorm, which muffles sound except for the metal monsters that scrape the roads clear of snow and ice, spilling it over the side of the raised highway and down onto the parking lot.
What strikes me is the sameness, the sameness of waiting for the weekend, or this Monday, or the month when strawberries come. People, including me, are talking about the snow now hitting the midwest, soon to be in my city; it comes every year, the earth shifts a bit and gently slides us into somnambulant hibernation. We are a bit sleepier, hot tea-ier, book read-ier, close the door-ier than in high summer. Still, there are gnomons to watch for, holidays, meetings, events, or wishes unmet that swing us trapeze-style, from Sunday to Wednesay, to TGIF, and Saturday, made for markets.
It's like a flip book, these pages of days and divisions created by humans as a way of order, yet I wonder, how many Saturdays have I lived through? Could I stand another Sunday? The weekends were horrifying when I was a child, I spent most of the time holding my breath until the inevitable Monday morning when my father would go back to work but return at half-past five. I never slept in the dark then; it was only after I was married that a night light wasn't necessary for me to sleep.
I have planted gardens, raised a child, given to the homeless, painted walls, learned languages, been in a forest fire, memorized poems, made friends, created various pieces of art, rescued cats, lived through loss, believed in God, had measles, rescued a bat, learned how to flip an omelet, driven a stick shift, sawed wood, started campfires, totaled cars twice, ridden horses, earned a master's degree, flown through a thunderstorm, changed the oil, been foreman on a jury, dug for fossils, saw my son get married wonderfully, been shaken by a ghost, made pies, gotten tattooed, given away money, studied wild mushrooms, stepped on a stingray, picked up snakes, and have beginner ukulele skills. This is only the stuff I can tell you. Yet, how does that darkness look the same? How does the sameness overwhelm the differences?
Maybe it's meant to be blank, a soothing deep allowing reflection, wishes, dreams, a mumbled prayer. Most people live regular lives just getting through one day to the next, wondering what's for supper, very few reach the realm of fame, we just hear more about them through media. That doesn't mean you aren't unique, much to the contrary. You know you're smarter than most, maybe brilliant with numbers, music, textiles, art, film, baking, nurturing, computers, teaching others, saving lives; it's what humans do. Keep doing.
I had to learn to let the night envelope me, and now view it as relief, a time for dreams and healing of the day. The tea is in the cup, with orange blossom honey; I look at the city lights and imagine the people who are out on the illuminated streets, visiting cafes, bars, coffee houses, extending their lives into the evening hours, when smell becomes more intense in the clearer air, hearing is amplified. Instincts are sharper. There will be a time when their heads gratefully hit a pillow, their blankets a glad enchantment.
Should I sing you to dreams? Here is your story, yours alone. Good night, dear, brave heart.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Music Critic
My ukulele has been on the bottom rack of my art stool as that makes it convenient and easy to grab for fiddling with. It's fairly safe, which is about as good as it gets for the $25 dollar model, and the brilliant orange color lures me in like a tin foil ball. There's a chip in the back where the kids at school argued about who had a turn last and dinged it. I don't mind, really; the kangaroo court they immediately set up to scourge the supposed wrongdoer was vehement and would have sent a French executioner blushing. All of a sudden it was one person's fault, and they smelt blood.
The instrument is home now, and since I have the clumsiest of fingers, until recently was in the pile of musical interests including a concertina, a dulcimer, a zither, a gong, recorders, things that you shake, many wooden frogs of varied pitches, and the ukulele which is as close to a legitimate instrument that I have ever owned. I have no musical talent. Zip. If thrumming produces two notes that go together, success is claimed. It took me four years to figure out how to properly hold the thing so that my fingers fit into the frets, but once that epiphany arrived, I've been practicing.
Numbness has set in my fingertips, along with hard little dents that don't go away. Alarming to lose sensation in any body part, but feeling is coming back slowly irregardless of what tactic the internet blares that day. "STOP immediately or there will be permanent damage!" "Go ahead and play, the nerves will return." In spite of the fuzziness I didn't want to stop, for even just strumming was soothing.
Currently, a simplified version of "Here Comes the Sun" is creaking along in fits and starts, it takes only six chords to get a reasonable facsimile and I am in further awe of people who can do this smoothly. I made a point to practice this evening and have the G, C, D, A positions down if you can wait a minute for me to arrange phalanxes correctly without overlap. Yup. Riffs, strumming patterns, tuning, it's coming along.
Tonight, while imagining showing a bit to a girlfriend who has taken ukulele lessons from a professional, I noticed what I thought to be a shred of brown cardboard inside the body, stuck to the label. Cardboard from the scratching post, but it didn't move when I tried shaking it out, so I put on my glasses and looked and it's a hapless, hopeless spider. Blowing on it as a Life-O-Meter check caused one leg to waggle ever so weakly, the other seven being scrunched up under it in a ball of spider legs.
The enthusiasm given the G chord while also picking out the bridging may have jounced the critter to Spider Heaven which the hell I hope is nowhere near Human Heaven. It also glued itself onto the label, meaning that a Q-Tip held in a pair of pliers or extra-long chopsticks will perform the surgical removal. Maybe the leg just moved from me poking at it, or was it a final wave of surrender to the Gods of Vibration? I think the poor thing fell in while exploring, and had no way to get out, but how long have I been practicing with it trapped in misery? Good thing spiders are deaf.
Halloween comes this Monday, and the children are dancing four inches off the ground in anticipation. Every teacher prays that please God, let no well-meaning parent send in cupcakes, for they are the bane of desktops, floors, clothing, hair, and sane digestion with that gloppy froth of grease dolloped atop as "frosting" by supermarkets. Sheet cakes are worse. "I thought you would have plates and a knife..." Really? I can't have a knife in my classroom nor take the time to dice cake into chunks and hand out during Screaming Child Fun Time. Go away, ye parent who serves their royal offspring. Thy sheet cake is sloven, thy Hawaiian Punch stains plot sticky treason on the linoleum.
Rainy day here, snowed a bit in the hinterlands leaving frost on the pumpkins in the early morning hours. The cascade of shortened days are barreling into the end of autumn, as fields become empty and brown themselves to sleep. The summer corn is gone, perhaps a few tomatoes are left; it's the hard, knotty fruits and vegetables that are rounding out the season. Heads of cauliflower, heavy squashes, apples, pumpkins, rutabagas, onions, things that can be stored a bit for later suppers. This part of the earth is readying itself for sleep.
Let your coracle of dreams carry you over the dark, somnambulant waves in rising levels, you already know who you are, who you were meant to be; so begin, begin with loving yourself so that you may love others. Happiness is in your hands. Good night.
The instrument is home now, and since I have the clumsiest of fingers, until recently was in the pile of musical interests including a concertina, a dulcimer, a zither, a gong, recorders, things that you shake, many wooden frogs of varied pitches, and the ukulele which is as close to a legitimate instrument that I have ever owned. I have no musical talent. Zip. If thrumming produces two notes that go together, success is claimed. It took me four years to figure out how to properly hold the thing so that my fingers fit into the frets, but once that epiphany arrived, I've been practicing.
Numbness has set in my fingertips, along with hard little dents that don't go away. Alarming to lose sensation in any body part, but feeling is coming back slowly irregardless of what tactic the internet blares that day. "STOP immediately or there will be permanent damage!" "Go ahead and play, the nerves will return." In spite of the fuzziness I didn't want to stop, for even just strumming was soothing.
Currently, a simplified version of "Here Comes the Sun" is creaking along in fits and starts, it takes only six chords to get a reasonable facsimile and I am in further awe of people who can do this smoothly. I made a point to practice this evening and have the G, C, D, A positions down if you can wait a minute for me to arrange phalanxes correctly without overlap. Yup. Riffs, strumming patterns, tuning, it's coming along.
Tonight, while imagining showing a bit to a girlfriend who has taken ukulele lessons from a professional, I noticed what I thought to be a shred of brown cardboard inside the body, stuck to the label. Cardboard from the scratching post, but it didn't move when I tried shaking it out, so I put on my glasses and looked and it's a hapless, hopeless spider. Blowing on it as a Life-O-Meter check caused one leg to waggle ever so weakly, the other seven being scrunched up under it in a ball of spider legs.
The enthusiasm given the G chord while also picking out the bridging may have jounced the critter to Spider Heaven which the hell I hope is nowhere near Human Heaven. It also glued itself onto the label, meaning that a Q-Tip held in a pair of pliers or extra-long chopsticks will perform the surgical removal. Maybe the leg just moved from me poking at it, or was it a final wave of surrender to the Gods of Vibration? I think the poor thing fell in while exploring, and had no way to get out, but how long have I been practicing with it trapped in misery? Good thing spiders are deaf.
Halloween comes this Monday, and the children are dancing four inches off the ground in anticipation. Every teacher prays that please God, let no well-meaning parent send in cupcakes, for they are the bane of desktops, floors, clothing, hair, and sane digestion with that gloppy froth of grease dolloped atop as "frosting" by supermarkets. Sheet cakes are worse. "I thought you would have plates and a knife..." Really? I can't have a knife in my classroom nor take the time to dice cake into chunks and hand out during Screaming Child Fun Time. Go away, ye parent who serves their royal offspring. Thy sheet cake is sloven, thy Hawaiian Punch stains plot sticky treason on the linoleum.
Rainy day here, snowed a bit in the hinterlands leaving frost on the pumpkins in the early morning hours. The cascade of shortened days are barreling into the end of autumn, as fields become empty and brown themselves to sleep. The summer corn is gone, perhaps a few tomatoes are left; it's the hard, knotty fruits and vegetables that are rounding out the season. Heads of cauliflower, heavy squashes, apples, pumpkins, rutabagas, onions, things that can be stored a bit for later suppers. This part of the earth is readying itself for sleep.
Let your coracle of dreams carry you over the dark, somnambulant waves in rising levels, you already know who you are, who you were meant to be; so begin, begin with loving yourself so that you may love others. Happiness is in your hands. Good night.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Hammer Drill Time
Since stenciling and doodad-ing the entryway changed things around, a wall rack for jackets was ordered as organizational support. Organization. My most not best trait. But it came, I knew where it was to go, and proceeded with my small drill to zip two holes into the wall. However, this wall was not cooperative, even with using a masonry bit, and the drill skittered sideways leaving a gouge outside of my organized point of entry on its surface.
The outer walls and ceiling are made of concrete slab and thus are resistant to home decor whims, but this was an inner wall of plaster, or so I thought. Yet having lived here nigh on 17 years with curtains to hang, I had trotted to Sears for a hammer drill and came home with this tool that looked like it could shoot bullets into the door of a Buick. Hadn't used it in years, and forgot how much fun it is to drill with the thing.
Pandemonium careened on two wheels as flying cats took cover from the uproar of this monster, which really didn't last that long at all, for the stubborn wall gave up and minded. It was like drilling into butter; and sad when it was over. I wanted to drill more, this power tool gave me well, power. Power over substances mere regular drills couldn't manage. Lemme tell ya, money can buy happiness if you just go purchase a hammer drill.
The job is done, but I couldn't bear to put it away, so the electrical genie is laying out in it's carrier just in case another wall gets sassy. I am trying to think of more stuff to hang up. Or for what purpose I could start a wall of Swiss cheese art.
I had gone to WalMart today, promptly forgetting the mollies needed for the screws and coming home with two bags worth of canned cat food, besides a part for a lamp and another gallon of white paint. Getting into the building was precarious as I will be darned if I can't get everything upstairs all in one trip, and so was teetering because of not well-balanced plastic bags. But thank heavens for the elevators. Wait a minute, why are all these angry people milling about?
For the umpteenth time both elevators were out; the elderly, people with baskets of laundry, an old man with a garden shovel, and babies in strollers began to overflow, seemingly dividing by mitosis while emitting mewing sounds. I couldn't stay and share the indignation, you can't blame them, but I needed to get upstairs. I live on the ninth floor. There is no elegance in hauling fifteen pounds of loot up into the stratosphere via a dull grey stairwell which doubles as a place to light up your joint. You would think that management could paint encouraging platitudes upon a step or two, "You're almost there!", "Take heart, stalwart tenant!" "Bathroom in 54 more steps." Their elevators break down that much.
It's not such a bad thing, however, except that gravity seems to become stronger the higher you go, and the flickering fluorescents only make you think of a bad horror movie. The noises I was involuntarily producing would have alarmed folks, and I was hoping no one would investigate because my neighbors sometimes check things out while holding a gun or by sending a three year old who speaks no English out on a tether.
The man who once lived above me, when in his 80s would take the stairs every day till the week before his death. He was an inspiration, and I thought of him while gurgling around the corners. Mr. Strickland, I bow to you, sir. I made it.
End of the day, the setting light went from gold to immediate dark as heavy clouds moved in off the Lake. There is a strong wind bringing change to the landscape by washing the trees of their yellow leaves, by scouring out the corners of summer flowers. I toil on with painting the apartment except that it really isn't work, but a transformational event. A letter carrier brought packages to the door and said at first he thought it looked like Christmas, which is nice, because it was made to be colorful for the deep days of the coming winter.
Blankets have been resurrected, pillows shaken out, and last year's pajamas put in the front of the dresser drawer. This is when the cats call a truce, for the chill allows an excuse for them to touch each other and I will find them sleeping with backs together, something that doesn't happen in warm weather.
The time change is a bit away yet, but in spite of the attempt to even things out, our bodies understand the rhythm of darkness and hunker in with additional covers and soup. Take a book to bed, read until your story unfolds, let the words lull you, tucked in and drowsy with myths and wishes. I wish, too. Good night.
The outer walls and ceiling are made of concrete slab and thus are resistant to home decor whims, but this was an inner wall of plaster, or so I thought. Yet having lived here nigh on 17 years with curtains to hang, I had trotted to Sears for a hammer drill and came home with this tool that looked like it could shoot bullets into the door of a Buick. Hadn't used it in years, and forgot how much fun it is to drill with the thing.
Pandemonium careened on two wheels as flying cats took cover from the uproar of this monster, which really didn't last that long at all, for the stubborn wall gave up and minded. It was like drilling into butter; and sad when it was over. I wanted to drill more, this power tool gave me well, power. Power over substances mere regular drills couldn't manage. Lemme tell ya, money can buy happiness if you just go purchase a hammer drill.
The job is done, but I couldn't bear to put it away, so the electrical genie is laying out in it's carrier just in case another wall gets sassy. I am trying to think of more stuff to hang up. Or for what purpose I could start a wall of Swiss cheese art.
I had gone to WalMart today, promptly forgetting the mollies needed for the screws and coming home with two bags worth of canned cat food, besides a part for a lamp and another gallon of white paint. Getting into the building was precarious as I will be darned if I can't get everything upstairs all in one trip, and so was teetering because of not well-balanced plastic bags. But thank heavens for the elevators. Wait a minute, why are all these angry people milling about?
For the umpteenth time both elevators were out; the elderly, people with baskets of laundry, an old man with a garden shovel, and babies in strollers began to overflow, seemingly dividing by mitosis while emitting mewing sounds. I couldn't stay and share the indignation, you can't blame them, but I needed to get upstairs. I live on the ninth floor. There is no elegance in hauling fifteen pounds of loot up into the stratosphere via a dull grey stairwell which doubles as a place to light up your joint. You would think that management could paint encouraging platitudes upon a step or two, "You're almost there!", "Take heart, stalwart tenant!" "Bathroom in 54 more steps." Their elevators break down that much.
It's not such a bad thing, however, except that gravity seems to become stronger the higher you go, and the flickering fluorescents only make you think of a bad horror movie. The noises I was involuntarily producing would have alarmed folks, and I was hoping no one would investigate because my neighbors sometimes check things out while holding a gun or by sending a three year old who speaks no English out on a tether.
The man who once lived above me, when in his 80s would take the stairs every day till the week before his death. He was an inspiration, and I thought of him while gurgling around the corners. Mr. Strickland, I bow to you, sir. I made it.
End of the day, the setting light went from gold to immediate dark as heavy clouds moved in off the Lake. There is a strong wind bringing change to the landscape by washing the trees of their yellow leaves, by scouring out the corners of summer flowers. I toil on with painting the apartment except that it really isn't work, but a transformational event. A letter carrier brought packages to the door and said at first he thought it looked like Christmas, which is nice, because it was made to be colorful for the deep days of the coming winter.
Blankets have been resurrected, pillows shaken out, and last year's pajamas put in the front of the dresser drawer. This is when the cats call a truce, for the chill allows an excuse for them to touch each other and I will find them sleeping with backs together, something that doesn't happen in warm weather.
The time change is a bit away yet, but in spite of the attempt to even things out, our bodies understand the rhythm of darkness and hunker in with additional covers and soup. Take a book to bed, read until your story unfolds, let the words lull you, tucked in and drowsy with myths and wishes. I wish, too. Good night.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Cupidity
You know you want them, the polished, brilliant striations and glistening colors beckon, entice, and seduce the usually sensible frontal parts of your brain which take care of self-control and reasoning. Yet the candy-like appearance yodels gratification and temporary sweetness, something that we'd all better get before the other guy arrives over the horizon. You want to eat them, solely, furtively, now; but there is that paper the manufacturers have covered their asses with, "Do Not Eat The Rocks".
I purchased a set of polished rocks from the book club in order to expose the childrens to the wonders of geology and "look at this" amazement. A paper of descriptives accompanied the selection of jasper and jade, with the warning at the bottom: DO NOT EAT THE ROCKS. Now, I will stand on the top of a ladder whilst balancing one foot on a bookcase; I will also eat something that has hit the floor under ten seconds, and drive a car whose muffler is no longer attached to the exhaust. You gotta live fast, you see. But eat a rock? It never occurred to me that this was a frivolous platitude, nor a unique personal goal of not ingesting granite. Who the hell would eat rocks? Do I know anyone?
Yes. Yes I do. Children, who now deal with candy bars that cost $1.00 to $1.50 for a sweet that would have cost me a nickel back in the day. Few of the rocks are rather stone-like, dull with a gritty surface; but some in the collection are high-polished floozies, just waiting for a kid to ingest one into their digestive system. These rocks are masquerading as jelly beans, just waiting for one desperate child to hope that this cold mineral really is a Sugar Baby in disguise. Ha. You thought we were rocks when in reality, we are delicious caramel drops and green jelly leaves. Eat us, eat us quickly, before your mother comes into the room, grabs your ankles, and shakes you upside down like a piggybank at Christmas.
It was a macabre surprise that the company thought to put a warning of not eating rocks within the kit; and yet, there is truth. I know children so determined not to miss opportunity that they would ingest a rock if they imagined that their counterparts were also determined to have more than they. I'm telling you, being a kid these days is harder in different respects, especially if you can't tell whether or not to eat the rocks out of an introductory kit of stone specimens.
Adults also have ideas that spin like Catherine wheels in illusionary beliefs; fired by tradition and hope, people slide sideways through narrow alleys constructed by peculiar ideology. The most soothing reassurance which can be offered is that no one is completely sane, we are all crazy in bits. The best we can do is try not to wound each other with our shortcomings or unrealistic expectations, but to offer an open door, with a smile. Name calling only reveals what you believe about yourself; threats, "do as I say or you will suffer pain of some sort that you will not be able to prevent" usually backfire as the target retaliates not with fear, but with fight. Go get 'em.
Last night I was reading in bed and noticed a dark blot in the crease between ceiling and wall directly above my head. Uh-oh. Glasses were not near, so I scooted out of bed and put my contacts back in, turned on the Big Light, and the black smudge became a spider. Not the docile immensities that are banging on the screened windows in order to install a Spider City for the winter; this was one of the aggressive tough ones that would drop on me in the night and inject poison into my face. What, what can I do? It's too high up to swat or grab with a tissue, something with reach was needed. Aerosol. Hair spray. That spider got Tresemmed with a coating of extra hold shine. It glistened and being the nasty, bitey sort, was heaved ho into the next plane of arachnid existence.
It is mid-Autumn, a lovely time of year. The trees in the city are just beginning to turn, squirrels are planting future caches of winter food. Night falls sooner, chill evening air draws your jacket closer, real blankets are pulled from cupboards and given jobs. Apples bring round tidings to carry in hand, a glad sign of the ending days; pumpkins, squashes, grapes, wines, and honey from local farmers are laid before our feet, a bounty to be enjoyed. Stock up, put up, jar, dryer rack, or root cellar.
Sleep well, we are entering the time when our own human Circadian rhythm pulls us to bed earlier, as if we were hibernating. Dreams of searching, looking for answers, realization or reflection come as stories to lead us into our deepest desires and finding out who we are. Plunge forward; even though this season claims sleep as a supporting player, it is indeed a time for self-expression and change. Nod through the seances of fall, breath in tannins, latch the door. I am with you, ever. Good night.
I purchased a set of polished rocks from the book club in order to expose the childrens to the wonders of geology and "look at this" amazement. A paper of descriptives accompanied the selection of jasper and jade, with the warning at the bottom: DO NOT EAT THE ROCKS. Now, I will stand on the top of a ladder whilst balancing one foot on a bookcase; I will also eat something that has hit the floor under ten seconds, and drive a car whose muffler is no longer attached to the exhaust. You gotta live fast, you see. But eat a rock? It never occurred to me that this was a frivolous platitude, nor a unique personal goal of not ingesting granite. Who the hell would eat rocks? Do I know anyone?
Yes. Yes I do. Children, who now deal with candy bars that cost $1.00 to $1.50 for a sweet that would have cost me a nickel back in the day. Few of the rocks are rather stone-like, dull with a gritty surface; but some in the collection are high-polished floozies, just waiting for a kid to ingest one into their digestive system. These rocks are masquerading as jelly beans, just waiting for one desperate child to hope that this cold mineral really is a Sugar Baby in disguise. Ha. You thought we were rocks when in reality, we are delicious caramel drops and green jelly leaves. Eat us, eat us quickly, before your mother comes into the room, grabs your ankles, and shakes you upside down like a piggybank at Christmas.
It was a macabre surprise that the company thought to put a warning of not eating rocks within the kit; and yet, there is truth. I know children so determined not to miss opportunity that they would ingest a rock if they imagined that their counterparts were also determined to have more than they. I'm telling you, being a kid these days is harder in different respects, especially if you can't tell whether or not to eat the rocks out of an introductory kit of stone specimens.
Adults also have ideas that spin like Catherine wheels in illusionary beliefs; fired by tradition and hope, people slide sideways through narrow alleys constructed by peculiar ideology. The most soothing reassurance which can be offered is that no one is completely sane, we are all crazy in bits. The best we can do is try not to wound each other with our shortcomings or unrealistic expectations, but to offer an open door, with a smile. Name calling only reveals what you believe about yourself; threats, "do as I say or you will suffer pain of some sort that you will not be able to prevent" usually backfire as the target retaliates not with fear, but with fight. Go get 'em.
Last night I was reading in bed and noticed a dark blot in the crease between ceiling and wall directly above my head. Uh-oh. Glasses were not near, so I scooted out of bed and put my contacts back in, turned on the Big Light, and the black smudge became a spider. Not the docile immensities that are banging on the screened windows in order to install a Spider City for the winter; this was one of the aggressive tough ones that would drop on me in the night and inject poison into my face. What, what can I do? It's too high up to swat or grab with a tissue, something with reach was needed. Aerosol. Hair spray. That spider got Tresemmed with a coating of extra hold shine. It glistened and being the nasty, bitey sort, was heaved ho into the next plane of arachnid existence.
It is mid-Autumn, a lovely time of year. The trees in the city are just beginning to turn, squirrels are planting future caches of winter food. Night falls sooner, chill evening air draws your jacket closer, real blankets are pulled from cupboards and given jobs. Apples bring round tidings to carry in hand, a glad sign of the ending days; pumpkins, squashes, grapes, wines, and honey from local farmers are laid before our feet, a bounty to be enjoyed. Stock up, put up, jar, dryer rack, or root cellar.
Sleep well, we are entering the time when our own human Circadian rhythm pulls us to bed earlier, as if we were hibernating. Dreams of searching, looking for answers, realization or reflection come as stories to lead us into our deepest desires and finding out who we are. Plunge forward; even though this season claims sleep as a supporting player, it is indeed a time for self-expression and change. Nod through the seances of fall, breath in tannins, latch the door. I am with you, ever. Good night.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Determination
You must know this, perhaps you are not as naive a person as myself, having not ever stepped inside a casino. I rarely purchase lottery tickets, and tossing coins down a gullet of metal is, to be truthful, appealing but a waste of quarters. Go in with a couple of rolls, be done with it. Now let's go to AmVets, the thrift store run by American Veterans, and buy tchotkes, tangible knickknacks and second-hand clothing. But pouring cash down a drain? I don't have a television mostly because I will be damned if I pay a cable company their prices for a flood of stupifying non-information. If the channels could be picked, then I might capitulate, but for over one hundred dollars a month it is assault, battery, and Tom-Sawyer-come-paint-my-fence-for-a-nickel charlatanism. There are things to do far more interesting than sitting, lumpified, through yammering shopping networks that supply other countries with my dough. Or religious send money farce. Or reality-not-reality programming that makes me wonder how the hell did we ever expand beyond swinging between branches. Ook ook. Eek eek.
But this is what you know and have been keeping secret from me all these years, which I just found out yesterday from One Who Has Been There, the Shark. Players at the gaming tables DO NOT WANT TO STOP for whatever reason, to lose their streak, their almost streak, their chance, it's almost there, the percentages mean I'mma win, c'mon baybay, etc., and this includes going to the bathroom. The mother freaking bathroom. So, says friend Shark who has witnessed, the players wear adult Depends and never leave the table. Nevah. You knew this and didn't let me know, I could have walked into one of these places and been wondering why with all the glitz, their sewer lines were backed up. Oh gods, monkeys, and the devil's arse.
Do not ever tell me about your kid playing video games, or sex workers, or any other time-wasting preoccupation (Time-wasting? Not us, say the sex workers and that's another topic), they all go to the bathroom when necessary. They pause, excuse, leave, return, and life or semi-life continues. But to sit and go through the agony of possibly winning big, but jaysus, those complimentary jalapeno poppers are kicking it so you find yourself sitting in a diaper in hopes that the lights go ding and the ancestral gods bestow great luck; here's notice that I, me, Susan Dorothy, will not even pull into the parking lot, god knows what's in those rubbish bins. WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Truckloads of people are brought to the casino in Ontario from Toronto, five dollars one way surrounded by fellow passengers crinkling in layers of absorbency. I can't imagine the return trip, but perhaps this is a stratification of society that understands and accepts bodily functions, for hey, I have worked with people who through no fault of their own, need changing and hygiene checks. But they aren't yelling about cards, chips, roulette wheels, slots, or more jalapenos. There are geniuses who toil away at near perfection, discovery, driven revelation; there is one fellow, a dear, devoting his life to recovery and cleaning of film; he has an Arbuckle project that has taken a near score of his life. I bet a roll of quarters that he is housebroken and maybe turning magenta as maybe reading this. Just a comparison, Boy Wonder, no worries. He is no less obsessed than this other group, is the point.
Are casino workers trained to give out these helpful hints? "Next time," in whispered sotto voce, "here's a coupon for 20% off a pack of 100 and free shrimp cocktail." They gotta know, and it has to be not relegated to one foreign country. Canadians are forgiving, but really, allowing clientele to defecate in public on upholstery is crazy sauce. Unless you are a daycare. Then, surrender all hope.
It rained last night, again, and today is overcast and cooler due to the brief cold front that has moved in. I am not a fan of summer and if winter kept it's daylight, I would much prefer that season. Subsequently, there is plenty for me to crab about, winter or summer; fall then spring are my favorites, for the harbinger of growing things and then the season of dormancy which states goodbye in colors and heady tannins both remain sane in temperature. Summer has been no rain; brown, dying, not-green things, dead branches, lost crops, stressed animals, and walking about was like hitting a wall. Winter is dark upon awakening, dark when driving to work, dark when returning home unless a flush of snow reflects the light of the city or moon, and then it's magic. Just as a summer's night of fireflies or stars illuminates the heart.
Forget the subterranean clicking and clangs, if you ever learn anything about this sort of stuff, please don't assume that I know it as well and tell me, for my beloved sake. I know nothing of gambling for money, but am good at taking other risks; or would that be considered gullible? Ach. What I know is that everything will be all right for most of us; I do not subscribe to that platitude of "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," for I have seen people broken by tragedy from which they never recover. Some do, many do, and create great things, find love, discover, share, forge onward. Be one of those. If I ever catch you sitting in a diaper in a casino, where I am never going anyways so you are safe, but if I do, be ready to be snatched baldheaded and dragged out to the parking lot where you will be given a lecture, tossed into the car, and taken to a custard stand. A museum. The park. You have that kind of money to waste plus a fantastical imagination and drive, there are places to go and things to do. Sorry. I'm still in shock at the concept. I also learned yesterday what sassafras is, and what it's used for: root beer. My favorite, next to Vernor's. And birch beer. Tree pop. Not all was ew. Thank you, Golden--my friends have the best names.
The day will fade and open the box of stars to sprinkle across the night; thing is, the stars are there all the time, just hidden by sunlight. Or did the people on the other side of the orb steal them for half of the 24 hours? Photos of Pluto reveal ice floes ebbing and rising; is this waterbased ice or another sort? I have to read, in case I ever land there. Do a good turn this day, tend to children kindly, love your animal companions and each other. Tonight with it's mysteries will come soon enough; respite, calm, the exaltation of propinquity. Be well.
But this is what you know and have been keeping secret from me all these years, which I just found out yesterday from One Who Has Been There, the Shark. Players at the gaming tables DO NOT WANT TO STOP for whatever reason, to lose their streak, their almost streak, their chance, it's almost there, the percentages mean I'mma win, c'mon baybay, etc., and this includes going to the bathroom. The mother freaking bathroom. So, says friend Shark who has witnessed, the players wear adult Depends and never leave the table. Nevah. You knew this and didn't let me know, I could have walked into one of these places and been wondering why with all the glitz, their sewer lines were backed up. Oh gods, monkeys, and the devil's arse.
Do not ever tell me about your kid playing video games, or sex workers, or any other time-wasting preoccupation (Time-wasting? Not us, say the sex workers and that's another topic), they all go to the bathroom when necessary. They pause, excuse, leave, return, and life or semi-life continues. But to sit and go through the agony of possibly winning big, but jaysus, those complimentary jalapeno poppers are kicking it so you find yourself sitting in a diaper in hopes that the lights go ding and the ancestral gods bestow great luck; here's notice that I, me, Susan Dorothy, will not even pull into the parking lot, god knows what's in those rubbish bins. WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Truckloads of people are brought to the casino in Ontario from Toronto, five dollars one way surrounded by fellow passengers crinkling in layers of absorbency. I can't imagine the return trip, but perhaps this is a stratification of society that understands and accepts bodily functions, for hey, I have worked with people who through no fault of their own, need changing and hygiene checks. But they aren't yelling about cards, chips, roulette wheels, slots, or more jalapenos. There are geniuses who toil away at near perfection, discovery, driven revelation; there is one fellow, a dear, devoting his life to recovery and cleaning of film; he has an Arbuckle project that has taken a near score of his life. I bet a roll of quarters that he is housebroken and maybe turning magenta as maybe reading this. Just a comparison, Boy Wonder, no worries. He is no less obsessed than this other group, is the point.
Are casino workers trained to give out these helpful hints? "Next time," in whispered sotto voce, "here's a coupon for 20% off a pack of 100 and free shrimp cocktail." They gotta know, and it has to be not relegated to one foreign country. Canadians are forgiving, but really, allowing clientele to defecate in public on upholstery is crazy sauce. Unless you are a daycare. Then, surrender all hope.
It rained last night, again, and today is overcast and cooler due to the brief cold front that has moved in. I am not a fan of summer and if winter kept it's daylight, I would much prefer that season. Subsequently, there is plenty for me to crab about, winter or summer; fall then spring are my favorites, for the harbinger of growing things and then the season of dormancy which states goodbye in colors and heady tannins both remain sane in temperature. Summer has been no rain; brown, dying, not-green things, dead branches, lost crops, stressed animals, and walking about was like hitting a wall. Winter is dark upon awakening, dark when driving to work, dark when returning home unless a flush of snow reflects the light of the city or moon, and then it's magic. Just as a summer's night of fireflies or stars illuminates the heart.
Forget the subterranean clicking and clangs, if you ever learn anything about this sort of stuff, please don't assume that I know it as well and tell me, for my beloved sake. I know nothing of gambling for money, but am good at taking other risks; or would that be considered gullible? Ach. What I know is that everything will be all right for most of us; I do not subscribe to that platitude of "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," for I have seen people broken by tragedy from which they never recover. Some do, many do, and create great things, find love, discover, share, forge onward. Be one of those. If I ever catch you sitting in a diaper in a casino, where I am never going anyways so you are safe, but if I do, be ready to be snatched baldheaded and dragged out to the parking lot where you will be given a lecture, tossed into the car, and taken to a custard stand. A museum. The park. You have that kind of money to waste plus a fantastical imagination and drive, there are places to go and things to do. Sorry. I'm still in shock at the concept. I also learned yesterday what sassafras is, and what it's used for: root beer. My favorite, next to Vernor's. And birch beer. Tree pop. Not all was ew. Thank you, Golden--my friends have the best names.
The day will fade and open the box of stars to sprinkle across the night; thing is, the stars are there all the time, just hidden by sunlight. Or did the people on the other side of the orb steal them for half of the 24 hours? Photos of Pluto reveal ice floes ebbing and rising; is this waterbased ice or another sort? I have to read, in case I ever land there. Do a good turn this day, tend to children kindly, love your animal companions and each other. Tonight with it's mysteries will come soon enough; respite, calm, the exaltation of propinquity. Be well.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Exposure
Getting to the cement quarry is easiest by going over the aptly named Skyway, which takes you up higher than the grain elevators clustered in rows, telling old stories of lost mills. This raised drive is enjoyable, as Lake Erie and the breakwater are in shades of green layered with teal, the visibility sometimes goes all the way to Dunkirk, a city further down the Lake. The trouble is, as the driver, you can't look more than 1 or 2 seconds or the car may swerve into a semi, go over the barrier, and end up as an accordion with a creamy meat center.
Triangular white sails of boats pushed about the water creating small wavelets; the descent down brought me to ground and the rusting foundries of the southtowns soldiered the road that led to the site, where shale was once mined for cement. The company digging had revealed beds of ocean fossils that are now owned by the town of Hamburg, and Penn Dixie has become the largest fossil park open to the public for collecting. You keep what you find. Whee!
Usually the elusive Phacops rana trilobite is my goal, but today I wanted something graceful, the genus Spirifer of the winged brachiopods. For them, you use a trowel and fork, no need to bang away on chunks of obstinate rock. Even though these things look like mollusks, they aren't, for they grew upright on stems that held them like flowers on short stalks. Entirely different internal system than mollusks, which were just coming around; it's rarer to find a clam or gastropod than these myriad brachs. But I did.
Now, for the majority of folks, finding a gastropod is not a big wahoo, (you found a snail?), but for me, it's better than a Crackerjack prize. A pointy small thing that looked like a bear claw hung onto the edge of flaking stone, and was prised off with my fingers. A horn coral? Dunno. But going up to the kiosk where volunteers helpfully identify what you've rescued, the wee thing was said to be indeed a snail, a witch's hat with a tiny curl at the peak. I can't remember the long Latin name, but can look it up in the guide later. Also that day rewarded the pouncing on rocks with several clams, which are fragile and better left in the matrix. I have had the elusive crumble in hand after carefully tapping away excess shale, and so have learned acceptance of dragging home rocks with specimens too frail to bang out. But my kitchen floor, amid potting soil, pots and now bins marked Brachiopods, Trilobites, and Miscellaneous for corals and bryozoans, is screaming for mercy. I can still get a frying pan out of the cupboard, so we are good. Let the linoleum scream.
But there were the brachiopods, the winged sort that are ridged with a central depression, and extended points on either side. They reminded me of the sails seen in the harbor, and maybe the evolved shape had something to do with catching the push of the Devonian ocean waters, just as people took the wing shape from seabirds to make catchers of wind for their boats. Or perhaps pelicans. Have you seen pelicans sail?
Storm clouds are running by as night begins, and a thousand wishes are flung upwards by the city for rain, as we are in a drought. Wind is hurrying them to the east, and so far not a drop has let go of it's place in the sky. You may as well expect a stream of ribbon candy to undulate earthward and get as much. I have cleaned the dull, grey profusion of fossilized organisms, and given some a coating of white glue to preserve what layers of carapace remain. To hold in place. To further freeze in time, as if the first 380-400 million years wasn't enough. Nothing stays the same.
Now that they are exposed to air, cats, and bins with stratifications of paper towels, there is inevitable chipping, or simply letting go of an exoskeleton that cannot bear the change in humidity or the chemistry of, the air. Change is inevitable as the wind, which is pushed by temperature of rising heat or cooled by ocean tides and currents. Stone is eroded by wind and sand into arcane visions; landscapes are lifted or washed away by storms; the earth rotates. All is fed by the physics of movement. And here we are, human us busy with our little monkey hands hammering at stone or each other.
We hardly notice our needs until we think it is too late, but it never is. Don't you worry. You have to go against the ideal devised by human nature to remain in stasis and thus seek change, how to fix things so that the first sound you hear is your own heartbeat, and that is what makes it difficult. Take courage and go ahead, there will be adventures that take you to strange, new lands; some are pleasant, yet on other days the inhabitants will happily rob your wallet.
Day has become night, says the glow of the streetlamps; a moon has risen to climb the sky. A train sounds it's horn before entering the tunnel outside my window, then again at Exchange Street, and a far away wail at the Depew station, the engines humming deeply over the rails, pulling passengers to they wonder where. Let dreams pull you through the sounds and sighs of the night, through the storms and wild winds within. Life is a blended chord. Sleep well, good night.
Triangular white sails of boats pushed about the water creating small wavelets; the descent down brought me to ground and the rusting foundries of the southtowns soldiered the road that led to the site, where shale was once mined for cement. The company digging had revealed beds of ocean fossils that are now owned by the town of Hamburg, and Penn Dixie has become the largest fossil park open to the public for collecting. You keep what you find. Whee!
Usually the elusive Phacops rana trilobite is my goal, but today I wanted something graceful, the genus Spirifer of the winged brachiopods. For them, you use a trowel and fork, no need to bang away on chunks of obstinate rock. Even though these things look like mollusks, they aren't, for they grew upright on stems that held them like flowers on short stalks. Entirely different internal system than mollusks, which were just coming around; it's rarer to find a clam or gastropod than these myriad brachs. But I did.
Now, for the majority of folks, finding a gastropod is not a big wahoo, (you found a snail?), but for me, it's better than a Crackerjack prize. A pointy small thing that looked like a bear claw hung onto the edge of flaking stone, and was prised off with my fingers. A horn coral? Dunno. But going up to the kiosk where volunteers helpfully identify what you've rescued, the wee thing was said to be indeed a snail, a witch's hat with a tiny curl at the peak. I can't remember the long Latin name, but can look it up in the guide later. Also that day rewarded the pouncing on rocks with several clams, which are fragile and better left in the matrix. I have had the elusive crumble in hand after carefully tapping away excess shale, and so have learned acceptance of dragging home rocks with specimens too frail to bang out. But my kitchen floor, amid potting soil, pots and now bins marked Brachiopods, Trilobites, and Miscellaneous for corals and bryozoans, is screaming for mercy. I can still get a frying pan out of the cupboard, so we are good. Let the linoleum scream.
But there were the brachiopods, the winged sort that are ridged with a central depression, and extended points on either side. They reminded me of the sails seen in the harbor, and maybe the evolved shape had something to do with catching the push of the Devonian ocean waters, just as people took the wing shape from seabirds to make catchers of wind for their boats. Or perhaps pelicans. Have you seen pelicans sail?
Storm clouds are running by as night begins, and a thousand wishes are flung upwards by the city for rain, as we are in a drought. Wind is hurrying them to the east, and so far not a drop has let go of it's place in the sky. You may as well expect a stream of ribbon candy to undulate earthward and get as much. I have cleaned the dull, grey profusion of fossilized organisms, and given some a coating of white glue to preserve what layers of carapace remain. To hold in place. To further freeze in time, as if the first 380-400 million years wasn't enough. Nothing stays the same.
Now that they are exposed to air, cats, and bins with stratifications of paper towels, there is inevitable chipping, or simply letting go of an exoskeleton that cannot bear the change in humidity or the chemistry of, the air. Change is inevitable as the wind, which is pushed by temperature of rising heat or cooled by ocean tides and currents. Stone is eroded by wind and sand into arcane visions; landscapes are lifted or washed away by storms; the earth rotates. All is fed by the physics of movement. And here we are, human us busy with our little monkey hands hammering at stone or each other.
We hardly notice our needs until we think it is too late, but it never is. Don't you worry. You have to go against the ideal devised by human nature to remain in stasis and thus seek change, how to fix things so that the first sound you hear is your own heartbeat, and that is what makes it difficult. Take courage and go ahead, there will be adventures that take you to strange, new lands; some are pleasant, yet on other days the inhabitants will happily rob your wallet.
Day has become night, says the glow of the streetlamps; a moon has risen to climb the sky. A train sounds it's horn before entering the tunnel outside my window, then again at Exchange Street, and a far away wail at the Depew station, the engines humming deeply over the rails, pulling passengers to they wonder where. Let dreams pull you through the sounds and sighs of the night, through the storms and wild winds within. Life is a blended chord. Sleep well, good night.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Who Are You?
Oh we went here, we went there, friend Mel and I buzzed around town during her weekend visit to Buffalo. The car museum has a Frank Lloyd Wright gas station built inside of it, copper spires, pink stucco walls. He is not a favorite of mine, and I wouldn't live in one of his houses here in the north unless there was a very fat bank account for repairs to roofs, which are low with angles designed to go with prairie winds. A heavy snow sitting it's fat self atop particular architecture means leaks, shifting, and maybe you're up there, shoveling so it won't collapse. Do the driveway, sidewalks, and then the roof. In one of our Nor'easter's or lake effects, your free time belongs to Mother Nature; have a thermos sent up while doing the flashing. Get the dog up there. That bank account would have to supply a caretaker, simply for the fussiness of Wright.
But the cars were lovely; Auburns, Hudsons, a Stanley Steamer, carriages, heavy beasts up to 6,000 pounds. Getting up to 100 mph was expected; but stopping with drum brakes took a long time, there were no quick stops; three times the distance of modern day cars had to be estimated. Something jumps out in front of you, it's good bye something.
Thrift shopping, outlet browsing, and here is where it got weird. I had to make a stop at the ladies room, fine; across the way was the mens room, with an "Out of Order" sign taped to the door. "Use the restroom near register 15". To someone who didn't step out and around to the actual register, but only noted the numbered post, the restroom nearest 15 was the ladies room.
The sign was poorly worded, another mens room was ten feet down from the register but you had to go look for it. I can understand the confusion. However, just before I exited the cubicle, there was a knock at the front door. Housecleaning? A timid woman wondering if this was more than a one at a time bathroom? I paid no attention as there was room for everyone who needed solace.
I swung out, headed to the sink, got my hands wet, and out of the corner of my eye saw an immense shape in black, standing on two legs with the door open and a day's growth of beard. Erk. I didn't think of the sign on the opposite restroom, however a thought temporarily wondered if this was a transgender event, even though the shoulders themselves could have stopped a Duesenberg. This was not a male transing to female, nor female transing to male; this was demonstrated by the flicker of fear in the man's eyes as he glanced over his shoulder to see who was washing hands. His whole face said oh no, but his best defense was his only one, he pretended not to see me. I agreed, but hustled.
Now, of course it was the sort of management which does not put paper towels in their rooms. I figured a high-powered dryer would cover the sound of a standing tinkle, and the fellow was not done. Besides, if it truly was a transgender person, I didn't want to insult them by shrieking and running. I didn't wait till my hands were all dry. Shaking them off was fine.
Friend Mel pointed out the real temporary bathroom intended for men, down a short hall near register 15, but really, could there have been an arrow saying this-a-way? Here's a tip, fellas. If you think that you are ever instructed to use a women's restroom, knock harder than a timid tap. Shout a halloo in there. Wave a white flag, get yourself all the way into the stall and shut the damn door. Better yet, go to the people in charge and ask what on earth, but then you open the possibility of being laughed at, you nitwit, we didn't mean the ladies room. Poor guy. You know he was on camera. Hopefully, security notified the front desk that hey, we have a situation, for as we headed for the cashier, another man approached, looked suspiciously at the ladies room door, turned and left.
A cold front is said to be on it's way, to temporarily cause a short rain and lower temperatures, back up to mid-80s to 90s thereafter. A haze lingers as the last of the sunlight glances around before escaping to China, Australia, Russia, where another collection of humans will look to the horizon at rise and set. Always rising, always setting, the roses and golds at the angled horizon are the next continent's midday blue sky. If the human eye were not adept at recognizing blue, the daytime sky would seem more violet as air molecules are slightly closer in size to the wavelength of violet light; pure air scatters violet light three to four times more effectively than it does the longer wavelengths. A violet sky, lovely; blue can go sit with Frank Lloyd Wright, as it is my least liked color.
Here is dusk; the swallows dive and arc for dinner through the masses of flying insects hovering over the harbor. The cooler air is welcome, the leaves rustle from the breezes brought by temperature fluctuation, the cats sigh with relief, the neon lights of the restaurant over on Pearl Street illuminate with brilliant red against the dunning sky.
Sleep well, traveller. Sleep well, roosting birds, readying for the night. Rocks, water, wood, and sand, lay still. The light of the stars is above the blanket of cloud, waiting for your dreams. Good night.
But the cars were lovely; Auburns, Hudsons, a Stanley Steamer, carriages, heavy beasts up to 6,000 pounds. Getting up to 100 mph was expected; but stopping with drum brakes took a long time, there were no quick stops; three times the distance of modern day cars had to be estimated. Something jumps out in front of you, it's good bye something.
Thrift shopping, outlet browsing, and here is where it got weird. I had to make a stop at the ladies room, fine; across the way was the mens room, with an "Out of Order" sign taped to the door. "Use the restroom near register 15". To someone who didn't step out and around to the actual register, but only noted the numbered post, the restroom nearest 15 was the ladies room.
The sign was poorly worded, another mens room was ten feet down from the register but you had to go look for it. I can understand the confusion. However, just before I exited the cubicle, there was a knock at the front door. Housecleaning? A timid woman wondering if this was more than a one at a time bathroom? I paid no attention as there was room for everyone who needed solace.
I swung out, headed to the sink, got my hands wet, and out of the corner of my eye saw an immense shape in black, standing on two legs with the door open and a day's growth of beard. Erk. I didn't think of the sign on the opposite restroom, however a thought temporarily wondered if this was a transgender event, even though the shoulders themselves could have stopped a Duesenberg. This was not a male transing to female, nor female transing to male; this was demonstrated by the flicker of fear in the man's eyes as he glanced over his shoulder to see who was washing hands. His whole face said oh no, but his best defense was his only one, he pretended not to see me. I agreed, but hustled.
Now, of course it was the sort of management which does not put paper towels in their rooms. I figured a high-powered dryer would cover the sound of a standing tinkle, and the fellow was not done. Besides, if it truly was a transgender person, I didn't want to insult them by shrieking and running. I didn't wait till my hands were all dry. Shaking them off was fine.
Friend Mel pointed out the real temporary bathroom intended for men, down a short hall near register 15, but really, could there have been an arrow saying this-a-way? Here's a tip, fellas. If you think that you are ever instructed to use a women's restroom, knock harder than a timid tap. Shout a halloo in there. Wave a white flag, get yourself all the way into the stall and shut the damn door. Better yet, go to the people in charge and ask what on earth, but then you open the possibility of being laughed at, you nitwit, we didn't mean the ladies room. Poor guy. You know he was on camera. Hopefully, security notified the front desk that hey, we have a situation, for as we headed for the cashier, another man approached, looked suspiciously at the ladies room door, turned and left.
A cold front is said to be on it's way, to temporarily cause a short rain and lower temperatures, back up to mid-80s to 90s thereafter. A haze lingers as the last of the sunlight glances around before escaping to China, Australia, Russia, where another collection of humans will look to the horizon at rise and set. Always rising, always setting, the roses and golds at the angled horizon are the next continent's midday blue sky. If the human eye were not adept at recognizing blue, the daytime sky would seem more violet as air molecules are slightly closer in size to the wavelength of violet light; pure air scatters violet light three to four times more effectively than it does the longer wavelengths. A violet sky, lovely; blue can go sit with Frank Lloyd Wright, as it is my least liked color.
Here is dusk; the swallows dive and arc for dinner through the masses of flying insects hovering over the harbor. The cooler air is welcome, the leaves rustle from the breezes brought by temperature fluctuation, the cats sigh with relief, the neon lights of the restaurant over on Pearl Street illuminate with brilliant red against the dunning sky.
Sleep well, traveller. Sleep well, roosting birds, readying for the night. Rocks, water, wood, and sand, lay still. The light of the stars is above the blanket of cloud, waiting for your dreams. Good night.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Words
Whimsy, whimsical; delish, munch, yummy, veggie, peek, luscious; there are school buzzwords such as "meaty" for lessons, which almost sent me through the roof; drill-down, rich, robust (you can tell when the coaches have received a memo on vocabulary to use). Shortened words, like vaycay (guilty), or gorj; these words are fingernails on a chalkboard to me, irritating, almost like ripping out an artery.
Contrary to many, the word "moist" doesn't bother me, but talk to me about "savory" and I want to rocket through the troposphere unless it is being used as a noun. Now that you know my weak points, realize that you can push me into a coma just by saying the word "munch", but do remember that it rhymes with "punch" which is a good probability in my fight or flight status. By accident. A good belt in the pan. Try it. Crunch.
I avoid saccharine, syrupy, warm horseapple pie nonsense because to me it is a pig dressed up as a silk purse. Wait. Sow's ear. something like that; for under the lush vegetative monotony of the word whimsy is a credit card of pretension. Dodgy misdirection invented to draw attention away from the true matter; it's a magic trick designed to draw in those searching for non-existent perfection to fill their boredom or social awkwardness. I'll get the veggies for munching on while we peek at the delish dessert menu for Waffledump's reception. Ooo, luscious whimsical cupcakes! Disclaimer: I recently watched the film "Bridesmaids", which inspired this rant of meow.
Now maybe you genuinely enjoy Barbie, Lifetime, QVC and their pipeline to China, or finding a card to be given to a wacky, wonderful, witty woman. You go for it and never mind me; just be careful where it takes you in life. Read stuff deeper than Hallmark. Think about really doing a kindness for someone and be genuine about it, no snide see-what-I-did-for-you's. You'll feel better whilst sitting down with a bowl of munchies, after peeking at the Christmas presents.
Nothing commercial escapes the twee, not even cat food. I brought home two bags from two different companies, both for sensitive stomachs; my guys get variety under the tenet that no one would like to eat mashed potatoes every meal, every day. The advertising for one is scientific, noting the ingredients in clear wording; the other, however, is a mess of brocaded wallpaper in a house of cigarette fiends.
It states the brand, under which is the line "created for your cat's natural greatness". The word "savor" has a trademark after it, and dang, this stuff is all about "embracing senses through taste, texture, and aroma". Embrace my foot you doofus bag of cat food. On the back are explanations as to why you should win the Nobel Prize for buying this product: "created for purposeful appreciation and a keen sense of awareness", "created for life without compromise", and "created for a cat like yours". Like Roger? Come and get the little greatness, his digestive system is why I'm buying the sensitive stomach kibble.
The ingredients, that you are distracted from by the cozy wording, are a plethora of fillers: soy, corn, and poultry by-product meal which is ground up feathers. I have sworn on my mother's grave never to write a short essay on pet food, it would kill you to know. However, my Mom doesn't have a grave, she's in my dresser drawer after I rescued her ashes from where my father had them, on top of his Zenith t.v. He watched television all day, so the black tupperware container that the ashes are returned in (inside a plastic bag with a twist tie), would get hot. This may have had Dorothy think that she ended up in hell, until the bells rung on The Price is Right.
Now, the cat food is a brand my cats like, but I should have read the ingredient listing other than the advertising on the front, announcing that salmon is numbah one on the roster. You know that if I saw the word "embracing" in the blurb there is no way the store would have gotten my seventeen dollars. The cats are eating it, my four chowderheads, with delight. I will keep an eye on their keen awareness, we don't want them to become too smart and figure out how to get to the casino.
The air is cooling now that the earth has turned up its sideways horizon past the sun; sort of neat to think we stand perpendicular to it, and thus spin forward or backwards, depending on which way we face. Winds blow clouds about the sky; cathedrals and buildings form and roil as cumulus rise, a white city floating in the air, a place of colors turning from yellow to gold to orange to coral-rose-purple, and then dusk. Thoughts flow, then are caught by the tide of sleep and taken to the sea in fisher nets to disperse amid currents. Hang your fingers over the side of the dory, let little fish bring you pearls, shells, words. Good night.
Contrary to many, the word "moist" doesn't bother me, but talk to me about "savory" and I want to rocket through the troposphere unless it is being used as a noun. Now that you know my weak points, realize that you can push me into a coma just by saying the word "munch", but do remember that it rhymes with "punch" which is a good probability in my fight or flight status. By accident. A good belt in the pan. Try it. Crunch.
I avoid saccharine, syrupy, warm horseapple pie nonsense because to me it is a pig dressed up as a silk purse. Wait. Sow's ear. something like that; for under the lush vegetative monotony of the word whimsy is a credit card of pretension. Dodgy misdirection invented to draw attention away from the true matter; it's a magic trick designed to draw in those searching for non-existent perfection to fill their boredom or social awkwardness. I'll get the veggies for munching on while we peek at the delish dessert menu for Waffledump's reception. Ooo, luscious whimsical cupcakes! Disclaimer: I recently watched the film "Bridesmaids", which inspired this rant of meow.
Now maybe you genuinely enjoy Barbie, Lifetime, QVC and their pipeline to China, or finding a card to be given to a wacky, wonderful, witty woman. You go for it and never mind me; just be careful where it takes you in life. Read stuff deeper than Hallmark. Think about really doing a kindness for someone and be genuine about it, no snide see-what-I-did-for-you's. You'll feel better whilst sitting down with a bowl of munchies, after peeking at the Christmas presents.
Nothing commercial escapes the twee, not even cat food. I brought home two bags from two different companies, both for sensitive stomachs; my guys get variety under the tenet that no one would like to eat mashed potatoes every meal, every day. The advertising for one is scientific, noting the ingredients in clear wording; the other, however, is a mess of brocaded wallpaper in a house of cigarette fiends.
It states the brand, under which is the line "created for your cat's natural greatness". The word "savor" has a trademark after it, and dang, this stuff is all about "embracing senses through taste, texture, and aroma". Embrace my foot you doofus bag of cat food. On the back are explanations as to why you should win the Nobel Prize for buying this product: "created for purposeful appreciation and a keen sense of awareness", "created for life without compromise", and "created for a cat like yours". Like Roger? Come and get the little greatness, his digestive system is why I'm buying the sensitive stomach kibble.
The ingredients, that you are distracted from by the cozy wording, are a plethora of fillers: soy, corn, and poultry by-product meal which is ground up feathers. I have sworn on my mother's grave never to write a short essay on pet food, it would kill you to know. However, my Mom doesn't have a grave, she's in my dresser drawer after I rescued her ashes from where my father had them, on top of his Zenith t.v. He watched television all day, so the black tupperware container that the ashes are returned in (inside a plastic bag with a twist tie), would get hot. This may have had Dorothy think that she ended up in hell, until the bells rung on The Price is Right.
Now, the cat food is a brand my cats like, but I should have read the ingredient listing other than the advertising on the front, announcing that salmon is numbah one on the roster. You know that if I saw the word "embracing" in the blurb there is no way the store would have gotten my seventeen dollars. The cats are eating it, my four chowderheads, with delight. I will keep an eye on their keen awareness, we don't want them to become too smart and figure out how to get to the casino.
The air is cooling now that the earth has turned up its sideways horizon past the sun; sort of neat to think we stand perpendicular to it, and thus spin forward or backwards, depending on which way we face. Winds blow clouds about the sky; cathedrals and buildings form and roil as cumulus rise, a white city floating in the air, a place of colors turning from yellow to gold to orange to coral-rose-purple, and then dusk. Thoughts flow, then are caught by the tide of sleep and taken to the sea in fisher nets to disperse amid currents. Hang your fingers over the side of the dory, let little fish bring you pearls, shells, words. Good night.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Twenty-seven Cents
Finding a penny brings a childish flush of success; I imagine it's a message, an omen of luck. A nickel is more fun, a dime is like passing Go in Monopoly; a quarter is a slot machine of cherries; and a dollar? Holy crow, a whole dollar blown against a fence or lost in last October's leaves entitles you to polish your buttons, straighten your shoulders, and be nice to people for at least half the day.
Someone cuts you off in their car? Bless them, they may have to get to a bathroom; you say hello and the other person woodenly stalks by on stiff legs? They are preoccupied with their inner life, a sorrow, a shyness. The words "blithering snot-nosed drooling idiot" don't occur in your happy dollar day mind. Half day, really. A whole day is a five.
Where do I find the most pennies? In the parking lot, which boggles because this is a subsidized housing complex that I was able to get into seventeen years ago when I was making $13,000 a year. They can't kick you out. But the point is, the folks living here are not rolling in dough, (yet for the life of me I can't figure out how some of them afford the cars they drive), but when some clean out their car, the change is tossed to the pavement. Few others pick up the pennies, stepping over them as if they were toadstools. Not me.
I have a piggy bank resembling a double decker British bus, thanks to Brit friend Rachel, and here is where I deposit the cashola, some barely recognizable or whose shape now resembles a potato chip due to plow blades or several hit and runs. Whee for me! The tin bank rattles with free money, and I pretend that I am ahead of the game.
Last mid-week, on the way to the car, two pennies were lying in a parking space; hot diggity! Two! Next to them, blending into the gray tamarack, lay a banged up quarter. What? Who throws out money when a can of cashews is now approaching $9.00? Did it fall from a child's hand? Was it someone new to the country who has a driver's license but not a good grasp of currency? A young person who has not yet had to forage for food or go to a soup kitchen? What is this 27 cents doing here, unattached to any human hand except for mine, which scooped up the treasure and tossed it into my purse before anyone could run up and ask if I saw a lost quarter.
Of course I would give it back, you ask me for money, you'll get what I have; last week a man asked for help, I gave him ten, no questions or admonishments. An older fellow came up to me in the thrift shop, and asked for a dollar so he could buy a Stevie Wonder cd. You'll need the tax, too, sir. Were they scams? Maybe, but their clothing and body carriage were not the sassy, hold the tiger by the tail sort. They were poor, beaten by hardship, thankful.
The ones I don't attend to are the cardboard sign people that wait at the exit ramps of highways. You have the strength to stand for hours, you can try to get a job or real help; the leader of the ring sends these usually drug-addled folks out and gives them a small percent of what they collect. They get a few bucks, drugs, and imagine that they have a job, poor fellas. Sometimes there's a dog with them, a golden Lab that looks dirty but well-fed. One ring was busted this past spring, but they are slowly showing up again in different parts of the city, as the usual spot is now under construction, and construction guys are nosy to what's doing.
Finding a penny is my four leaf clover, and since Canada has done away with theirs, I cling to our Abe Lincolns like they were unicorn gold. Don't mess with my money; the different states on the backs of quarters, yeah, cute. I still think the Mercury dime is cooler than Franklin D. Roosevelt, the flying eagle quarter is missed, and the Walking Liberty half-dollar was taken over by a Kennedy which also disappeared. A good, solid silver dollar is now a flimsy, brown thing that you rarely see at all, and the workers at the mint must be bored silly or have gotten into ye tankards because they are fiddling with the nickel, enlarging Jefferson's face till it looks plain weird.
Today, on the way home from the layers of shale, a long train was running through; well, not really running, more like a fifteen mile an hour saunter. It held up traffic while the lights, bells, and gates of the crossing signals were doing the job of alerting us that this was dangerous, and to keep back. Eventually, the train plodded on and the gates lifted. And went back down. And lifted, stayed, hesitated, and then began waving like a demented clown while the red lights kept blinking and the bell clanging. Things were on the fritz; Stephen King was in charge.
Finally, the gates went up and stayed, and the first few vehicles rumbled over the double track, then over another single track. Then gotcha! The gates dropped down. We waited nervously, for all our mothers (except the ones who had violists for children), had repeatedly taught us that railroad tracks were extremely dangerous. Not to be fooled with. Especially the sentient ones.
The gates flim-flammed up, you could tell the drivers each held their breath for a moment; they proceeded cautiously, and the blue pickup truck on the opposite side then lost half of his windshield as the possessed gate guillotined down. The striped barrier bounced on the roof of the pickup, giving it deliberate whacks while the rest of us watched in dismay. After five good hits, the monster raised to attention and stood still. GO GO GO I mentally messaged the car in front of me, for logistically, he had time if he didn't dawdle once the thing was at it's apex. But who wants to rev across three sets of train tracks? He hunkered down and went, making it.
My turn. I pinned that blinking bastard to the sky with a look, glaring at the thing with justice and the American way while I got me and my car past the gauntlet. I will rip your wooden guts out and shove your wiring up your black and white circuit box if you even think of coming down on my car, you crackhead signal from hell. No, no, I know it's an inanimate object with a malfunction, and can't react to human mental commands. Or swears. But it made me feel better.
Home, and at 8:55 in the evening the last of the sun lingers, telling you that it's summertime. I am tired, for whacking rocks is hard business, but I found a few treasures. Gladly, slip yourself to bed after a day of monsters or of happily being pleasant. Did you find a penny? I am sure you found something, whether communion with another, the surety of love and constancy, or just a leaf, a feather, a song carried from the throat of a warbler. It all ties in. Sit under the crescent night moon and write your story; tell a tale. I will read it. Good night.
Someone cuts you off in their car? Bless them, they may have to get to a bathroom; you say hello and the other person woodenly stalks by on stiff legs? They are preoccupied with their inner life, a sorrow, a shyness. The words "blithering snot-nosed drooling idiot" don't occur in your happy dollar day mind. Half day, really. A whole day is a five.
Where do I find the most pennies? In the parking lot, which boggles because this is a subsidized housing complex that I was able to get into seventeen years ago when I was making $13,000 a year. They can't kick you out. But the point is, the folks living here are not rolling in dough, (yet for the life of me I can't figure out how some of them afford the cars they drive), but when some clean out their car, the change is tossed to the pavement. Few others pick up the pennies, stepping over them as if they were toadstools. Not me.
I have a piggy bank resembling a double decker British bus, thanks to Brit friend Rachel, and here is where I deposit the cashola, some barely recognizable or whose shape now resembles a potato chip due to plow blades or several hit and runs. Whee for me! The tin bank rattles with free money, and I pretend that I am ahead of the game.
Last mid-week, on the way to the car, two pennies were lying in a parking space; hot diggity! Two! Next to them, blending into the gray tamarack, lay a banged up quarter. What? Who throws out money when a can of cashews is now approaching $9.00? Did it fall from a child's hand? Was it someone new to the country who has a driver's license but not a good grasp of currency? A young person who has not yet had to forage for food or go to a soup kitchen? What is this 27 cents doing here, unattached to any human hand except for mine, which scooped up the treasure and tossed it into my purse before anyone could run up and ask if I saw a lost quarter.
Of course I would give it back, you ask me for money, you'll get what I have; last week a man asked for help, I gave him ten, no questions or admonishments. An older fellow came up to me in the thrift shop, and asked for a dollar so he could buy a Stevie Wonder cd. You'll need the tax, too, sir. Were they scams? Maybe, but their clothing and body carriage were not the sassy, hold the tiger by the tail sort. They were poor, beaten by hardship, thankful.
The ones I don't attend to are the cardboard sign people that wait at the exit ramps of highways. You have the strength to stand for hours, you can try to get a job or real help; the leader of the ring sends these usually drug-addled folks out and gives them a small percent of what they collect. They get a few bucks, drugs, and imagine that they have a job, poor fellas. Sometimes there's a dog with them, a golden Lab that looks dirty but well-fed. One ring was busted this past spring, but they are slowly showing up again in different parts of the city, as the usual spot is now under construction, and construction guys are nosy to what's doing.
Finding a penny is my four leaf clover, and since Canada has done away with theirs, I cling to our Abe Lincolns like they were unicorn gold. Don't mess with my money; the different states on the backs of quarters, yeah, cute. I still think the Mercury dime is cooler than Franklin D. Roosevelt, the flying eagle quarter is missed, and the Walking Liberty half-dollar was taken over by a Kennedy which also disappeared. A good, solid silver dollar is now a flimsy, brown thing that you rarely see at all, and the workers at the mint must be bored silly or have gotten into ye tankards because they are fiddling with the nickel, enlarging Jefferson's face till it looks plain weird.
Today, on the way home from the layers of shale, a long train was running through; well, not really running, more like a fifteen mile an hour saunter. It held up traffic while the lights, bells, and gates of the crossing signals were doing the job of alerting us that this was dangerous, and to keep back. Eventually, the train plodded on and the gates lifted. And went back down. And lifted, stayed, hesitated, and then began waving like a demented clown while the red lights kept blinking and the bell clanging. Things were on the fritz; Stephen King was in charge.
Finally, the gates went up and stayed, and the first few vehicles rumbled over the double track, then over another single track. Then gotcha! The gates dropped down. We waited nervously, for all our mothers (except the ones who had violists for children), had repeatedly taught us that railroad tracks were extremely dangerous. Not to be fooled with. Especially the sentient ones.
The gates flim-flammed up, you could tell the drivers each held their breath for a moment; they proceeded cautiously, and the blue pickup truck on the opposite side then lost half of his windshield as the possessed gate guillotined down. The striped barrier bounced on the roof of the pickup, giving it deliberate whacks while the rest of us watched in dismay. After five good hits, the monster raised to attention and stood still. GO GO GO I mentally messaged the car in front of me, for logistically, he had time if he didn't dawdle once the thing was at it's apex. But who wants to rev across three sets of train tracks? He hunkered down and went, making it.
My turn. I pinned that blinking bastard to the sky with a look, glaring at the thing with justice and the American way while I got me and my car past the gauntlet. I will rip your wooden guts out and shove your wiring up your black and white circuit box if you even think of coming down on my car, you crackhead signal from hell. No, no, I know it's an inanimate object with a malfunction, and can't react to human mental commands. Or swears. But it made me feel better.
Home, and at 8:55 in the evening the last of the sun lingers, telling you that it's summertime. I am tired, for whacking rocks is hard business, but I found a few treasures. Gladly, slip yourself to bed after a day of monsters or of happily being pleasant. Did you find a penny? I am sure you found something, whether communion with another, the surety of love and constancy, or just a leaf, a feather, a song carried from the throat of a warbler. It all ties in. Sit under the crescent night moon and write your story; tell a tale. I will read it. Good night.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Wham Wham Wham Ow--Trilobites!
Yesterday, a beautifully cool, overcast day, I spent seven hours whanging away on chunks of shale with a chisel and my rock hammer. A back hoe had dug in a week before, exposing new layers to bang on in service of the Penn-Dixie Fossil site, the largest open-to-the-public fossil dig in the nation. Over 120 people attended, some driving up from Ohio, others timing their vacation to the States from the Netherlands to coincide with the event.
This is what you do to find trilobites: get a sturdy bucket, a sledge hammer, a rock hammer, a big chisel that will take on stone, paper towels, gloves, safety glasses, and a thermos of water for yourself. I learned to bring a few other things for next time, such as a gel pad to make sitting on pointy slabs of shale more comfortable. If you are after brachiopods and corals, just bring a trowel and a bucket, maybe a few paper towels to wrap fragile specimens. Off you go, out into the yonder of rock piles, find a spot, and dig.
I arrived a bit late, which was okay as there were plenty of gravestone-size chunks for all; I tottered over wobbling stones to an empty bit, sat and surveyed those around me. Technique? Pick a boulder and with your rock hammer, beat the snot out of it directly in the middle of the top. Shale will crack as it is a softer stone, and sedimentary; once the crack begins a fault line, aim the chisel into it and continue beating. It may or may not open, for often a chip will skitter off, and then it's back to hammering.
Nothing but horn corals appeared for the first hour of bam bam bam, as I generated a ring of crushed stone around me; this was punctuated by the voices of finders of trilobites.
"Oh look, he's laying flat, that's a nice one, third one today."
Relentless, I chose another stone after finishing the first and imbedded on the surface was a healthy sized thorax and tail of a trilobite. So they do exist! This inspired a new dedication to bashing stone, and it was then that I started hitting gold. Not a whole one, but dang near close.
One rock split to reveal a puddle of trilobites clustered together, as if they were hiding and something killed them all at once. Might have been a storm, said a dusty neighbor, that caused the animals to try to hide together, for they gathered in pools as a possible survival strategy. Aw, I thought, poor things. then something killed them all at once, either a disease or climate change. Remember, 400 million years ago, when you were a trilobite scooting along the ocean floor, you were located in Euramerica, right spat at the equator. Devonian period, y'know.
You have to stand up once in a while to avoid the fetal rock-cracker position that will freeze you into an Incan mummy posture until someone unwinds your limbs. But for the rest of the afternoon, I smashed stone along with my 120 co-horts; we looked like prisoners working piles of rock, sounding like crazed woodpeckers. Many layers of bam.
I didn't bang my fingers once, but I managed to hit my wrist a few times; my fingers were like claws by about one o'clock and even today I can't make a closed fist with my right hand. Ow. The bucket held about ten pounds of fascination, my nose took on a Vesuvius of dust, and I won't ever wear a loose-necked shirt around flying stone fragments again. It was embarrassing, as you can't go digging down your front if people don't know you or are another gender; so I came home with added minerals. I thought that the people dressed as if they were scientists were play-acting, bundled up with lots of pockets and bandanas tied around necks. Well, they were smart and didn't develop a crust of shards, I looked like Alligator Girl with a bucket. Besides, many of them were scientists.
At the end, it felt like a lawnmower had run over me, everything hurt, so there was aspirin before bed and I am just now starting to feel functional. But oh. One man runs a large telescope down in Mansfield, Ohio that can find distant galaxies, another is an expert on ancient oceans; these accomplished women and men hammered away at slabs of shale, and reduced the field to gray rubble.
The earth shrugged. There have been five great mass extinctions, and some researchers claim that we are in the middle of a very fast sixth. Over all time, 95% of life has become extinct; during the Devonian age, 70% of all invertebrates disappeared. That included brachiopods, trilobites, corals, and other early marine life; the terrestials were barely touched. It is hypothesized that an increase in land plants used up the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, cooling the earth over a twenty million year period.
Million, that is a vast number and here I am, holding a life from 400 million years ago. I have dragged my treasures upstairs, rinsed them off and will neaten them up a bit with a dental pick. A solution of white glue and water will protect them, now that they are no longer blanketed by pounds of shale.
Mars is close, look up for an unblinking orange ball in the night sky; look up and know that some of those stars are actually whirling galaxies, with systems and life and rising suns. Are skies blue everywhere? Is chlorophyll green? What sort of stores are there on other planets? Sort of neat to think that maybe peanuts grow elsewhere, that maybe earth isn't their only gig. Do alien children like Snickers bars? The nearest earth-like planet is 10.5 light years away, circling a star in Alpha Centauri; what if they had a Snickers factory? What if they weren't so different from you and I in mind or taste? Like the galaxy-scientist said, it would fill your heart.
Sleep this cool spring night, the dark soothes and equalizes while the stars shine down on the fossil pit, the future illuminating the past, starlight twinkling over trilobites. Live with honor, it's the best we can do. Good night.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Tidal Wave
Doing dishes is a pleasure that I enjoy behind closed doors, nothing to brag about; a sink of hot water with an added tea kettle of boiling water, a squirt of dish liquid, about two tablespoons of ammonia and rubber gloves for heaven's sake. This is if the amount of dishes is momentous enough to call for an assembly line; day to day dishes get a scrub with a sponge, the end. You want clean dishes, add the extra ammonia which is the not such a big deal secret put in grease cutting soaps. Do read labels, anything with oxy won't get along with the ammonia and may create fumes, same with bleach. Never mix the two or you may end up on a gurney with blinking lights and plastic tubings. Not to scare you, but be smart about this. It's chemistry.
Get two tubs of rinse water ready; the first being plain hot water to swash off suds and the ammonia which would eventually evaporate on its own, but why not hurry it along? The second tub is also hot water, but with a bit of white vinegar added to get All the soap off. Whoa, you say, there was just a lecture on mixtures and solutions and gurneys, what's this acidic vinegar nonsense? Well, by the time the item gets through the first rinse, most of the chemical is gone, and the vinegar rinse produces sparkle and squeaking, which is lovely. Fling open a window, turn on a fan, having fresh air wouldn't hurt but I guarantee there won't be a headache from fizzing. If things fizz, there's too much of something, dilute further with tap water.
Glass turns to diamonds, just be sure it isn't Grandma's because it is unlikely to be tempered and may crack going in to the first solution. I let it air dry on a folded towel, while plates stand like enlisted soldiers in the dish rack. Various sizes of bottle brushes do different jobs; a teensy one for teapot spouts, a scientific one for getting in the angles of pitchers. I am far, far from being a clean fest, faaaarrrrrrrr. But this dishes business is similar to a tea ceremony, and I like thinking that I'm productive. Do rinse sauces and dairy off the plates before the first wash, so that you don't end up with a greasy, brown soup that has chunks in it.
Last Thursday, I was at the sink with only a few things to wash but look! The tea kettle is spotty with bacon grease, wash it! Utensils hanging over the stove, wash them! Wipe down the trash can lid and cat food bucket, rinse the sponge! The digging tools and rock hammer could use a cleaning, wash! The zone was in action, I was being almost holy, and then WHAM! Where the hell did that puddle under the fridge come from? Flipping pancakes, the rug is soaked, that's not coming from the fridge, it's from under the sink where the trail led to inside the bottom cupboard; the vision of an unscrewed pipe connector met my gaze, burbling with rinse water.
A life lesson is that you can swear IF you keep moving and fix things; it does not help one bit to swear in frozen disbelief as a half inch of water laps at your heels and please oh please don't let it be so much that the downstairs apartment is wondering which idiot flooded their kitchen. I have learned to get moving as fast as possible and figure out the how it happened later. Failsafes fortunately caught even more water than was on the floor, as the pipe had dislodged before, and so trays and tubs lined the area inside the cupboard with stored items.
I can only imagine that the wind from the lake, which shakes the building from time to time, creates a slow unwinding of counterclockwise movement, jiggling the connector loose until it flails meaninglessly into failure. Or, the place is haunted. Stranger things happen, ladies and gentlemen. It may also explain why cupboard handles come loose and fall off mysteriously.
The magical car washing sponge is excellent for sopping up messes; under the sink was emptied out and dried, the creeping puddle was vanquished, and there were no knocks at my door. Cats wanted to help, but there was yuck everywhere, and so feelings were hurt when I said no, thank you. NO. NOOOOOO DAMMIT!!!! The evening was filled with humidity and disappointment at lost plans; that's another lesson. Not much doesn't gang aft a-gley, so just go with the flow till it can be resolved, if ever. No one will remember it in a month, including yourself, unless it's a bill collector or your boss.
Today was put-away-snow-boot day, in honor of tomorrow's vernal equinox; yet under the boots was a puddle. Today is Saturday, did water from the kitchen fiasco find it's way over to the shoes and boots by the door? No, no way, this is not happening, where did all this water come from, for the amoeba-like blop extended under the bike, then ended at the sisal mat which was bone dry. This meant that no water got past that mat, coming from another source. Where? Paper towels contained most of what was sort of medicine-y smelling liquid and led to the perp. a knocked over container of wipes used for cleaning around the cat dishes.
Who knew wipes had that much liquid to cause a minor collapse of my physics perspective, being that if something crummy happens, you are declared safe for at least the remainder of that week. Certainly, you have experienced the combo emotion of chagrin/relief, and end up being temporarily confused as to which to feel first. The rest of this weekend shall be bone dry, a Sahara of linoleum, a desert wind across the cooling coils of ye olde refrygeratore.
In other corners, there was a navy blue wool sailor suit in perfect condition at the thrift store for $16; now, I don't need a man's sailor suit, the kind the Cracker Jack kid wears, but how, how could this be passed up? The pants have a lace in the back, a buttoned square front; the patches indicate that this man was a Petty Officer, Second Class and worked in the Aviation Machinist division. A semi-circle on the shoulder announced ATKRON 42, Attack Squadron 42. I have yet to find further history on the uniform, but what a story from artifacts sewn onto the cloth! Could have been WWII, Korea, or Vietnam; hopefully research will lead to answers, but frankly, it looks as if it had never been worn, except that the pants legs are safety-pinned up on the inside to a height a bit taller than me.
The name tag under the back flap of the jersey had become unreadable, traces of blue ink had dissolved into obscurity; well, check the pants. There it was, May James. May? Did women wear these uniforms? With that squared off front in the pants? Flip the name around, and it became James May, with a number. Googled the name and here is a British television somebody who does documentaries? He lives in Hammersmith, London, and flies small aircraft. Is he the match for this name? Was the uniform, a size 36 whose pants would had fit a 6 foot frame unpinned, part of a program he did? I doubt if this is the man, and tomorrow will dig around with the number, a B132215, if I remember correctly. May James, James May, I will do my best.
I had brought home a National Geographic with a story regarding how darkness, night time, impacts our diurnal lives and how we have lost much darkness by the illumination after sundown. What drew me was a photo of something I think I saw only as a small girl when living out in the sticks, the Milky Way. Can anyone not fall to their knees at the image of eternity, of the liquid star clusters, nebulae, billions of systems with stars and planets, the wheeling map of light and energy? And yet to those who see this view each night, those who live in areas not lit by electricity, do they shiver to their toes at the immensity, do they reach with fingers as if to slide them over a point of light?
Repair when you can, look up at the night sky; it will fill you with what you are.
Get two tubs of rinse water ready; the first being plain hot water to swash off suds and the ammonia which would eventually evaporate on its own, but why not hurry it along? The second tub is also hot water, but with a bit of white vinegar added to get All the soap off. Whoa, you say, there was just a lecture on mixtures and solutions and gurneys, what's this acidic vinegar nonsense? Well, by the time the item gets through the first rinse, most of the chemical is gone, and the vinegar rinse produces sparkle and squeaking, which is lovely. Fling open a window, turn on a fan, having fresh air wouldn't hurt but I guarantee there won't be a headache from fizzing. If things fizz, there's too much of something, dilute further with tap water.
Glass turns to diamonds, just be sure it isn't Grandma's because it is unlikely to be tempered and may crack going in to the first solution. I let it air dry on a folded towel, while plates stand like enlisted soldiers in the dish rack. Various sizes of bottle brushes do different jobs; a teensy one for teapot spouts, a scientific one for getting in the angles of pitchers. I am far, far from being a clean fest, faaaarrrrrrrr. But this dishes business is similar to a tea ceremony, and I like thinking that I'm productive. Do rinse sauces and dairy off the plates before the first wash, so that you don't end up with a greasy, brown soup that has chunks in it.
Last Thursday, I was at the sink with only a few things to wash but look! The tea kettle is spotty with bacon grease, wash it! Utensils hanging over the stove, wash them! Wipe down the trash can lid and cat food bucket, rinse the sponge! The digging tools and rock hammer could use a cleaning, wash! The zone was in action, I was being almost holy, and then WHAM! Where the hell did that puddle under the fridge come from? Flipping pancakes, the rug is soaked, that's not coming from the fridge, it's from under the sink where the trail led to inside the bottom cupboard; the vision of an unscrewed pipe connector met my gaze, burbling with rinse water.
A life lesson is that you can swear IF you keep moving and fix things; it does not help one bit to swear in frozen disbelief as a half inch of water laps at your heels and please oh please don't let it be so much that the downstairs apartment is wondering which idiot flooded their kitchen. I have learned to get moving as fast as possible and figure out the how it happened later. Failsafes fortunately caught even more water than was on the floor, as the pipe had dislodged before, and so trays and tubs lined the area inside the cupboard with stored items.
I can only imagine that the wind from the lake, which shakes the building from time to time, creates a slow unwinding of counterclockwise movement, jiggling the connector loose until it flails meaninglessly into failure. Or, the place is haunted. Stranger things happen, ladies and gentlemen. It may also explain why cupboard handles come loose and fall off mysteriously.
The magical car washing sponge is excellent for sopping up messes; under the sink was emptied out and dried, the creeping puddle was vanquished, and there were no knocks at my door. Cats wanted to help, but there was yuck everywhere, and so feelings were hurt when I said no, thank you. NO. NOOOOOO DAMMIT!!!! The evening was filled with humidity and disappointment at lost plans; that's another lesson. Not much doesn't gang aft a-gley, so just go with the flow till it can be resolved, if ever. No one will remember it in a month, including yourself, unless it's a bill collector or your boss.
Today was put-away-snow-boot day, in honor of tomorrow's vernal equinox; yet under the boots was a puddle. Today is Saturday, did water from the kitchen fiasco find it's way over to the shoes and boots by the door? No, no way, this is not happening, where did all this water come from, for the amoeba-like blop extended under the bike, then ended at the sisal mat which was bone dry. This meant that no water got past that mat, coming from another source. Where? Paper towels contained most of what was sort of medicine-y smelling liquid and led to the perp. a knocked over container of wipes used for cleaning around the cat dishes.
Who knew wipes had that much liquid to cause a minor collapse of my physics perspective, being that if something crummy happens, you are declared safe for at least the remainder of that week. Certainly, you have experienced the combo emotion of chagrin/relief, and end up being temporarily confused as to which to feel first. The rest of this weekend shall be bone dry, a Sahara of linoleum, a desert wind across the cooling coils of ye olde refrygeratore.
In other corners, there was a navy blue wool sailor suit in perfect condition at the thrift store for $16; now, I don't need a man's sailor suit, the kind the Cracker Jack kid wears, but how, how could this be passed up? The pants have a lace in the back, a buttoned square front; the patches indicate that this man was a Petty Officer, Second Class and worked in the Aviation Machinist division. A semi-circle on the shoulder announced ATKRON 42, Attack Squadron 42. I have yet to find further history on the uniform, but what a story from artifacts sewn onto the cloth! Could have been WWII, Korea, or Vietnam; hopefully research will lead to answers, but frankly, it looks as if it had never been worn, except that the pants legs are safety-pinned up on the inside to a height a bit taller than me.
The name tag under the back flap of the jersey had become unreadable, traces of blue ink had dissolved into obscurity; well, check the pants. There it was, May James. May? Did women wear these uniforms? With that squared off front in the pants? Flip the name around, and it became James May, with a number. Googled the name and here is a British television somebody who does documentaries? He lives in Hammersmith, London, and flies small aircraft. Is he the match for this name? Was the uniform, a size 36 whose pants would had fit a 6 foot frame unpinned, part of a program he did? I doubt if this is the man, and tomorrow will dig around with the number, a B132215, if I remember correctly. May James, James May, I will do my best.
I had brought home a National Geographic with a story regarding how darkness, night time, impacts our diurnal lives and how we have lost much darkness by the illumination after sundown. What drew me was a photo of something I think I saw only as a small girl when living out in the sticks, the Milky Way. Can anyone not fall to their knees at the image of eternity, of the liquid star clusters, nebulae, billions of systems with stars and planets, the wheeling map of light and energy? And yet to those who see this view each night, those who live in areas not lit by electricity, do they shiver to their toes at the immensity, do they reach with fingers as if to slide them over a point of light?
Repair when you can, look up at the night sky; it will fill you with what you are.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Where Have All the T Shirts Gone?
Spirit Week next week at the school!! Yaaaay!! Funny Hat day, Dress Up day,
Wear Orange day, and 1990s day. Each grade was assigned a color, and first grade got my favorite, orange. I love orange, and have decided that I am going to be so damn orange, you'd think a spray tan of Q-T mixed with drive-in movie snack bar orangeade couldn't compete with with this orange. Think Oompah Loompah meets the capital of Florida with a orange-licious aroma, and that will be me. No, seriously, I'm not dying my skin, but a nice outline of Orange-Glo lipstick will top off the iris-searing dress that's the color of a gas jet burning off pollutants at the oil refinery.
But that's not the problem. My kids like having a teacher that's sort of with it, and thus a trip to the Google was invoked as a way to find out what the hell 1990s American fashion was doing. I don't know, have no inkling, those were the busy years and I was nose deep in college paperwork. Apparently, I missed Grunge. The word is familiar, but I know it isn't the safety pin through the ear Punk business, nor the pale, empty milk carton complexion of Goth. Is it just a week's worth of dirt? Grunge? Let's see.
What erupted was a series of clean people in flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and rock band t shirts. Maybe Doc Martens. But dayum if a trip to AmVets wasn't in order to shuffle through the myriad rock star t shirts remembered of old. Well har de har har, Coburn. Out of 90 feet of clothes rack, there was one Kid Rock, one KISS, a Jimi Hendrix, and someone called Chemical Romance. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? I know Hendrix, but the image was wreathed in smoke which is a no for school. Same with those men who looked like they had gotten into your sister's steam curlers and took the vacuum cleaner apart, after watching He-Man cartoons while emptying Dad's Wild Turkey onto their cornflakes. Not for me. Kid Rock was aiming a gun at the viewer with stylized nekkid wimmens framing the play dates on the back of the shirt. You gotta be kidding.
What happened? Most of the t shirts were corporate fund raisers, college sports teams, bars in Florida, Tim Horton's, one sad Native American with an upset wolf, sexual commentary, or awareness for blood types. Where are the rock bands? Do we have rock bands anymore? Are they not producing t shirts? How am I to get down with the 1990s?
The strangest one was titled "Burn Masculinity at Spook Camp" with a simple contour lined trio of two girls holding hands with a boy in flames. I think it was a boy because there were scattered lines depicting hair on the legs; but who really can say, as the whole thing looked like it was drawn by a Golden Retriever with a happy tail. I just know those were flames shooting up from the shoulders, enveloping the head and baseball cap. I should go buy it. You think it's still there?
Chemical Romance came home with me, they seem appropriate for school; a collarless shirt with blue stripes to be tossed over, several embarrassing 90s makeup trends like totally rimmed inner eyelid dark blue eyeliner with scrunched, gelled hair, frosted leepsteeck, and butterfly hair clips will knock their socks off. But who came up with the 90s as a fun day for Spirit Week? I'll tell you who.
The twenty-somethings. The younger faculty to whom the 90s seem alien and quaint compared to today's ultra computerized polymer fashion. Lemme tell ya, I went to a Painting Party the other night where the studio had hooked into Pandora, which is some sort of radio station. These grown women, my colleagues, were gushing like oil strikes over Justin Bieber. I was floored. I had never heard the boy, but I learned that the college education which all these women possess counts for nothing when it comes to the auto-tuned Biebs. I painted harder. If you look, there is hidden message spelled out in the leaves of the trees in my painting. Flexible little Biebs.
Good night, good night. Less than a week before the time changes into a lovely, lengthening of daylight. Buds and robins are bursting, Lent is in the midst of penance for those who like that sort of thing, and the first spider of the season spun a web in my bathroom window. On the inside frame. Hopeful thing, probably hungry, maybe I can lure a few ubiquitous fruit flies into the bathroom if I leave an apple out. Maybe I can lure Justin Bieber into the bathroom, and look the other way as the spider wraps him up like a tamale.
Sleep well, spring forward.
Wear Orange day, and 1990s day. Each grade was assigned a color, and first grade got my favorite, orange. I love orange, and have decided that I am going to be so damn orange, you'd think a spray tan of Q-T mixed with drive-in movie snack bar orangeade couldn't compete with with this orange. Think Oompah Loompah meets the capital of Florida with a orange-licious aroma, and that will be me. No, seriously, I'm not dying my skin, but a nice outline of Orange-Glo lipstick will top off the iris-searing dress that's the color of a gas jet burning off pollutants at the oil refinery.
But that's not the problem. My kids like having a teacher that's sort of with it, and thus a trip to the Google was invoked as a way to find out what the hell 1990s American fashion was doing. I don't know, have no inkling, those were the busy years and I was nose deep in college paperwork. Apparently, I missed Grunge. The word is familiar, but I know it isn't the safety pin through the ear Punk business, nor the pale, empty milk carton complexion of Goth. Is it just a week's worth of dirt? Grunge? Let's see.
What erupted was a series of clean people in flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and rock band t shirts. Maybe Doc Martens. But dayum if a trip to AmVets wasn't in order to shuffle through the myriad rock star t shirts remembered of old. Well har de har har, Coburn. Out of 90 feet of clothes rack, there was one Kid Rock, one KISS, a Jimi Hendrix, and someone called Chemical Romance. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? I know Hendrix, but the image was wreathed in smoke which is a no for school. Same with those men who looked like they had gotten into your sister's steam curlers and took the vacuum cleaner apart, after watching He-Man cartoons while emptying Dad's Wild Turkey onto their cornflakes. Not for me. Kid Rock was aiming a gun at the viewer with stylized nekkid wimmens framing the play dates on the back of the shirt. You gotta be kidding.
What happened? Most of the t shirts were corporate fund raisers, college sports teams, bars in Florida, Tim Horton's, one sad Native American with an upset wolf, sexual commentary, or awareness for blood types. Where are the rock bands? Do we have rock bands anymore? Are they not producing t shirts? How am I to get down with the 1990s?
The strangest one was titled "Burn Masculinity at Spook Camp" with a simple contour lined trio of two girls holding hands with a boy in flames. I think it was a boy because there were scattered lines depicting hair on the legs; but who really can say, as the whole thing looked like it was drawn by a Golden Retriever with a happy tail. I just know those were flames shooting up from the shoulders, enveloping the head and baseball cap. I should go buy it. You think it's still there?
Chemical Romance came home with me, they seem appropriate for school; a collarless shirt with blue stripes to be tossed over, several embarrassing 90s makeup trends like totally rimmed inner eyelid dark blue eyeliner with scrunched, gelled hair, frosted leepsteeck, and butterfly hair clips will knock their socks off. But who came up with the 90s as a fun day for Spirit Week? I'll tell you who.
The twenty-somethings. The younger faculty to whom the 90s seem alien and quaint compared to today's ultra computerized polymer fashion. Lemme tell ya, I went to a Painting Party the other night where the studio had hooked into Pandora, which is some sort of radio station. These grown women, my colleagues, were gushing like oil strikes over Justin Bieber. I was floored. I had never heard the boy, but I learned that the college education which all these women possess counts for nothing when it comes to the auto-tuned Biebs. I painted harder. If you look, there is hidden message spelled out in the leaves of the trees in my painting. Flexible little Biebs.
Good night, good night. Less than a week before the time changes into a lovely, lengthening of daylight. Buds and robins are bursting, Lent is in the midst of penance for those who like that sort of thing, and the first spider of the season spun a web in my bathroom window. On the inside frame. Hopeful thing, probably hungry, maybe I can lure a few ubiquitous fruit flies into the bathroom if I leave an apple out. Maybe I can lure Justin Bieber into the bathroom, and look the other way as the spider wraps him up like a tamale.
Sleep well, spring forward.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Emotative Toaster
I live in the Land of Good Enough; the fridge has a plastic doored inside freezer that has lost the magnet which holds it shut. Being a manual defrost, the ledge of ice has formed a curved lip that would suit penguins, the light hasn't worked ever, and there is a flap which has a summer and winter position but damned if I remember to flip the flap. If this procedure is remembered during Defrosting Day, after washing the catch basin for the chunks I have chopped out with a screwdriver and blow-dryer on the vavavoom setting, the question remains of why. Why does it matter? There is no difference, the flap doesn't need to know, it thinks it has purpose. That is part of happiness, this purpose business.
Anthropomorphizing inanimate objects comes naturally to me, and yes, you do it too. So pointing fingers will get you no where. You've coaxed "come on, girl", when the car is going rrr rrr rrr on a cold day, you've sworn at plumbing fixtures that don't screw together evenly eight times thereby allow drainage spray to coat the underside of the kitchen sink: "Goddammit, you s.o.b., WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" Tell me you haven't yelled out "Atta boy!" when the right object fits the right piece. Rocks are sworn at. Hammers elicit praise or condemnation. Find something modern-made that matches a part needed to repair an older appliance. She's a beauty.
And so, things seem to have assigned gender: ships, storms, trains, and vehicles are mostly feminine; the sun, sexless robots, and appliances have been implicitly given masculine identities, as least in my life. Do not ask about the sexless robots. It never happened. But I talk to things, recently hearing that this classifies me as a genius. Read 'em and weep, people.
Because they have gender, objects have feelings and like to be useful, fulfilling their purpose. It grieves me to toss out an empty ballpoint pen, for the pen's life is done and it goes to join an immense vortex of garbage out in an ocean gyre. It is sad for the pen, and pisses off the ocean; this is part of what I think of before dropping off to sleep. That carbon footprint business; this leads to me hanging on to things beyond their usefulness or modernity.
The browser for this laptop has informed me that updates will shortly stop, as it will not condescend to interact with geriatric technology. If I want more than binary alphabet soup to appear onscreen, an upgrade is called for; however. I AM PERFECTLY HAPPY WITH THE ERRANT DISCOMBOBULATION OF THIS SIX YEAR OLD MACHINE, which in my generational brain, is still a miracle produced by elves, fairies, and wishes on stars. But, the speaker port no longer works, the glass thing that notified the internal infernals that a certain tab was what I wanted is cracked and no longer, the ejector for the disk drive is caput, and there is a ledge of manual defrost ice forming over the screen. Penguins are in line.
Things have gotten too fast, and he crashes; I have faced the Blue Screen of Death once, just 30 days before warranty ended; every five minutes I have to switch browsers as things freeze or Safari has canceled Force Quit. It's time. But this fella has been with me since the last years of my master's, and is perfectly sufficient for my needs. He's a heavy boy, but has been lugged from school to library to desk, slung over my shoulder. We have a friendship, filled with ups and downs, and is my Mac.
If you don't feel a bit sentimental about the last time of anything, I myself would keep a wide berth so that my babbling brook of concern over a favored sweater, plate, ugly clock from my beloved Grandma Ida, or workhorse appliance on it's last legs doesn't cause alarm.
Now, all of this reverses, as if we moved to Australia, if I am in a hurry. Then, duck under the flight of things being chucked into bags for the thrift shop as I glean interests down to a select few. I ain't got time for mess and have parted with a large aquarium, a shoe stand from the 40's, books and more books that I will never refer to again. They gotta go. I do tell them that they are going to a far better place where their usefulness will be celebrated, with hopes they don't feel betrayed if the thrift shop tosses them out as well.
Would've been happy with my old red car for the next century; it had taken good care of me but developed dangerous noises and a gas leak besides being rusted out. But I didn't care what it looked like, it was a good car and lasted with me for nigh to twelve years. The new one was an invader at first, yet has developed a personality and perception that it likes me. Nonsense? Go ask Rudolph Valentino, that's his name, and yes, I jumped gender and made it a he.
I like the idea of happiness, wanting to spread it like butter on toast and thus extend it to my world. Things do things, just as we do for each other, unless you're sociopathic and there have been a couple of those in my life as well. Thank you toaster from the fifties that still works even though I don't eat bread, thank you pastry blender that was my mother's but flakes red paint from the handle into the pie crust, thank you refrigerator still buzzing after twenty years of secondhand use. Goodbye television was not hard, and I am processing saying goodbye landline. Haven't had phone service since the end of December, but after working with the consultant who said the problem was likely on my end, I bought a new phone. It isn't installed, as I am not one to use the phone, and keep forgetting. The old one going into the garbage won't hurt, except it may get that ocean gyre of garbage into a temper even further.
Thank you blankets, thank you pillow, thank you lights that turn out. Thank you breath, thank you sun and night and lamp posts who keep us safe; thank you for what I know and how I know it. Make something happy by using it, an old china cup from your glass cabinet, for example. Make yourself useful; you deserve it.
Good night, with happiness.
Anthropomorphizing inanimate objects comes naturally to me, and yes, you do it too. So pointing fingers will get you no where. You've coaxed "come on, girl", when the car is going rrr rrr rrr on a cold day, you've sworn at plumbing fixtures that don't screw together evenly eight times thereby allow drainage spray to coat the underside of the kitchen sink: "Goddammit, you s.o.b., WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" Tell me you haven't yelled out "Atta boy!" when the right object fits the right piece. Rocks are sworn at. Hammers elicit praise or condemnation. Find something modern-made that matches a part needed to repair an older appliance. She's a beauty.
And so, things seem to have assigned gender: ships, storms, trains, and vehicles are mostly feminine; the sun, sexless robots, and appliances have been implicitly given masculine identities, as least in my life. Do not ask about the sexless robots. It never happened. But I talk to things, recently hearing that this classifies me as a genius. Read 'em and weep, people.
Because they have gender, objects have feelings and like to be useful, fulfilling their purpose. It grieves me to toss out an empty ballpoint pen, for the pen's life is done and it goes to join an immense vortex of garbage out in an ocean gyre. It is sad for the pen, and pisses off the ocean; this is part of what I think of before dropping off to sleep. That carbon footprint business; this leads to me hanging on to things beyond their usefulness or modernity.
The browser for this laptop has informed me that updates will shortly stop, as it will not condescend to interact with geriatric technology. If I want more than binary alphabet soup to appear onscreen, an upgrade is called for; however. I AM PERFECTLY HAPPY WITH THE ERRANT DISCOMBOBULATION OF THIS SIX YEAR OLD MACHINE, which in my generational brain, is still a miracle produced by elves, fairies, and wishes on stars. But, the speaker port no longer works, the glass thing that notified the internal infernals that a certain tab was what I wanted is cracked and no longer, the ejector for the disk drive is caput, and there is a ledge of manual defrost ice forming over the screen. Penguins are in line.
Things have gotten too fast, and he crashes; I have faced the Blue Screen of Death once, just 30 days before warranty ended; every five minutes I have to switch browsers as things freeze or Safari has canceled Force Quit. It's time. But this fella has been with me since the last years of my master's, and is perfectly sufficient for my needs. He's a heavy boy, but has been lugged from school to library to desk, slung over my shoulder. We have a friendship, filled with ups and downs, and is my Mac.
If you don't feel a bit sentimental about the last time of anything, I myself would keep a wide berth so that my babbling brook of concern over a favored sweater, plate, ugly clock from my beloved Grandma Ida, or workhorse appliance on it's last legs doesn't cause alarm.
Now, all of this reverses, as if we moved to Australia, if I am in a hurry. Then, duck under the flight of things being chucked into bags for the thrift shop as I glean interests down to a select few. I ain't got time for mess and have parted with a large aquarium, a shoe stand from the 40's, books and more books that I will never refer to again. They gotta go. I do tell them that they are going to a far better place where their usefulness will be celebrated, with hopes they don't feel betrayed if the thrift shop tosses them out as well.
Would've been happy with my old red car for the next century; it had taken good care of me but developed dangerous noises and a gas leak besides being rusted out. But I didn't care what it looked like, it was a good car and lasted with me for nigh to twelve years. The new one was an invader at first, yet has developed a personality and perception that it likes me. Nonsense? Go ask Rudolph Valentino, that's his name, and yes, I jumped gender and made it a he.
I like the idea of happiness, wanting to spread it like butter on toast and thus extend it to my world. Things do things, just as we do for each other, unless you're sociopathic and there have been a couple of those in my life as well. Thank you toaster from the fifties that still works even though I don't eat bread, thank you pastry blender that was my mother's but flakes red paint from the handle into the pie crust, thank you refrigerator still buzzing after twenty years of secondhand use. Goodbye television was not hard, and I am processing saying goodbye landline. Haven't had phone service since the end of December, but after working with the consultant who said the problem was likely on my end, I bought a new phone. It isn't installed, as I am not one to use the phone, and keep forgetting. The old one going into the garbage won't hurt, except it may get that ocean gyre of garbage into a temper even further.
Thank you blankets, thank you pillow, thank you lights that turn out. Thank you breath, thank you sun and night and lamp posts who keep us safe; thank you for what I know and how I know it. Make something happy by using it, an old china cup from your glass cabinet, for example. Make yourself useful; you deserve it.
Good night, with happiness.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Losing Lunch
How on earth does anyone misplace a potato? There must be a rabbit hole that collects car keys and shoes, now transitioning to potatoes. Baked. A baked potato meant to be lunch. It's been missing for three days and I'm not sure what happens to an unwrapped tater--maybe it mummifies, hopefully; I do not want blue moldy hair running rampant through the school papers in the briefcase. But I know it was put in with either the papers or into my purse; for to me it doesn't make sense to use a whole gaflunking lunchbox for one mid-size potato, I have enough to carry as it is.
I had zapped the potato the night before, tossing it into the fridge for next day lunch; when morning came, zoom zoom feed cats, zoom zoom get boots on, zoom zoom get keys, throw potato into purse, (yes, unwrapped, not even a paper towel; I'm in a crazy hurry to pick up Friend). Might have been in the briefcase, I forgot which, obviously because when lunchtime came and I looked, hoping for an intact potato not smooshed into the cell phone, there was nothing. Nada. No potato. What?
Searched the briefcase, thrashing papers about; where has my lunch gone? A room temp, plain baked potato is convenient, illicitly full of carbs, and is, well, a potato. But it's a bit odd to carry a cooked potato that isn't contained, for it's now a loose criminal tuber and apparently on the lam. Can I tell you how many times I checked each place, as if during the third investigation, the escaped potato would magically appear? I knew I had brought it along, I knew I had launched it from five feet away into the open satchel. But where the hell could it be? I lost a potato.
Of course it worried me; I checked the car to see if it had rolled out, looked back in the fridge since maybe I imagined packing it for lunch; did it get buried in papers on my desk, did one of my kids think of the cool sound it would make when impacting a fourth grader's head? How big are the cockroaches this year? No potato was to be found. Fwip. Gone. Poof.
Next day, I grabbed an apple to take and placed it into the briefcase; come lunchtime, it had disappeared as well. I couldn't find the apple, and felt as if I were floating, one with the intra-dimensional universe where all molecules flow one into another and this apple had ascended into my being; I was already one with a Gala from Lynoaken Farms. It made me dizzy to wonder where the hell it went, was the briefcase hungry? Did the apple run off with the potato? I did find a cough drop in the bottom of the case.
Now for the denouement. After saving up lucky points with the class book club, I was able to get a small cube refrigerator which sits on the floor behind my desk, convenient for small things. After three days, it occurred that maybe I should look and begorrah, there it was, sitting on a rack towards the back. I hate when I put things where they should go, because that is when they are lost the most, and I prefer my food not cold so it didn't seem likely that it would be put into the fridge. Fridge: 01, Susan: 00. I ate the resurrected potato after thanking the lord that I wasn't quite off my rocker, yet.
The apple is still hiding out, but to cheer me up in the parking lot there were a dime, a penny, and then a folded up dollar like a mini-lottery.
Losing things makes me feel like an idiot; finding them creates an immense sigh of relief and a New Outlook. Strangest items I have found: the corner of a $100 bill, a dead monkey, the shed skin of a tiny newt in a cold rivulet, completely perfect, completely inside out. I dragged home the spine of a mostly rotted deer carcass to see how it fit together; it was just lying there by the road, I think I used rubber gloves and a hefty bag, boiled it clean in a banged up pot, museum-style. Ice tongs, an empty grenade (that was found in school), a bottle that said "Mother's Only Rival" in raised glass, the skull of a woodchuck who suffered badly as it sometimes happens because their teeth continually grow and have to be worn down; if for some reason that doesn't happen, the tooth can eventually curl up through the roof of the mouth. There was a Monarch butterfly who couldn't fly and so came home with us to be fed sugar water from a cotton ball the rest of the summer. He lasted well over a month. Finally, there was a neatly folded dollar bill on the pavement; upon opening there was a sugary white powder revealed inside, I am guessing cocaine? Dunno; sprinkled it into the grass, wiped the bill on my jeans, and put it into my pocket. I think I've told you enough about me. Really. How about you?
No cloud cover tonight, the blackness of nighttime seems abyssal in spite of the lighted buildings of the city. Before electricity changed our lives after sunset, it seems that people slept twice a night; first sleep lasted about 3 hours, there was a period of wakefulness, and finally, second sleep. The whole night was closer to eleven hours long, compared to our accepted eight. I rarely post links in this blog, but if you want further history, http://www.history.vt.edu/Ekirch/sleepcommentary.html. I will not post any woodchuck skulls with curling teeth, you can look that up if you so desire.
Good night, good night; get to bed earlier than usual and see what it does for your day tomorrow. If you wake mid-night, pick up a book, write down notes, get up and check on that Ben and Jerry's in the fridge. Maybe you'll find my apple which is still in hiding, at least until I notice the hint of applesauce. Take sleep seriously under piles of blankets, it is a good thing to do for yourself. I shall be out on the path with my lamp, watching; two o'clock and all's well.
I had zapped the potato the night before, tossing it into the fridge for next day lunch; when morning came, zoom zoom feed cats, zoom zoom get boots on, zoom zoom get keys, throw potato into purse, (yes, unwrapped, not even a paper towel; I'm in a crazy hurry to pick up Friend). Might have been in the briefcase, I forgot which, obviously because when lunchtime came and I looked, hoping for an intact potato not smooshed into the cell phone, there was nothing. Nada. No potato. What?
Searched the briefcase, thrashing papers about; where has my lunch gone? A room temp, plain baked potato is convenient, illicitly full of carbs, and is, well, a potato. But it's a bit odd to carry a cooked potato that isn't contained, for it's now a loose criminal tuber and apparently on the lam. Can I tell you how many times I checked each place, as if during the third investigation, the escaped potato would magically appear? I knew I had brought it along, I knew I had launched it from five feet away into the open satchel. But where the hell could it be? I lost a potato.
Of course it worried me; I checked the car to see if it had rolled out, looked back in the fridge since maybe I imagined packing it for lunch; did it get buried in papers on my desk, did one of my kids think of the cool sound it would make when impacting a fourth grader's head? How big are the cockroaches this year? No potato was to be found. Fwip. Gone. Poof.
Next day, I grabbed an apple to take and placed it into the briefcase; come lunchtime, it had disappeared as well. I couldn't find the apple, and felt as if I were floating, one with the intra-dimensional universe where all molecules flow one into another and this apple had ascended into my being; I was already one with a Gala from Lynoaken Farms. It made me dizzy to wonder where the hell it went, was the briefcase hungry? Did the apple run off with the potato? I did find a cough drop in the bottom of the case.
Now for the denouement. After saving up lucky points with the class book club, I was able to get a small cube refrigerator which sits on the floor behind my desk, convenient for small things. After three days, it occurred that maybe I should look and begorrah, there it was, sitting on a rack towards the back. I hate when I put things where they should go, because that is when they are lost the most, and I prefer my food not cold so it didn't seem likely that it would be put into the fridge. Fridge: 01, Susan: 00. I ate the resurrected potato after thanking the lord that I wasn't quite off my rocker, yet.
The apple is still hiding out, but to cheer me up in the parking lot there were a dime, a penny, and then a folded up dollar like a mini-lottery.
Losing things makes me feel like an idiot; finding them creates an immense sigh of relief and a New Outlook. Strangest items I have found: the corner of a $100 bill, a dead monkey, the shed skin of a tiny newt in a cold rivulet, completely perfect, completely inside out. I dragged home the spine of a mostly rotted deer carcass to see how it fit together; it was just lying there by the road, I think I used rubber gloves and a hefty bag, boiled it clean in a banged up pot, museum-style. Ice tongs, an empty grenade (that was found in school), a bottle that said "Mother's Only Rival" in raised glass, the skull of a woodchuck who suffered badly as it sometimes happens because their teeth continually grow and have to be worn down; if for some reason that doesn't happen, the tooth can eventually curl up through the roof of the mouth. There was a Monarch butterfly who couldn't fly and so came home with us to be fed sugar water from a cotton ball the rest of the summer. He lasted well over a month. Finally, there was a neatly folded dollar bill on the pavement; upon opening there was a sugary white powder revealed inside, I am guessing cocaine? Dunno; sprinkled it into the grass, wiped the bill on my jeans, and put it into my pocket. I think I've told you enough about me. Really. How about you?
No cloud cover tonight, the blackness of nighttime seems abyssal in spite of the lighted buildings of the city. Before electricity changed our lives after sunset, it seems that people slept twice a night; first sleep lasted about 3 hours, there was a period of wakefulness, and finally, second sleep. The whole night was closer to eleven hours long, compared to our accepted eight. I rarely post links in this blog, but if you want further history, http://www.history.vt.edu/Ekirch/sleepcommentary.html. I will not post any woodchuck skulls with curling teeth, you can look that up if you so desire.
Good night, good night; get to bed earlier than usual and see what it does for your day tomorrow. If you wake mid-night, pick up a book, write down notes, get up and check on that Ben and Jerry's in the fridge. Maybe you'll find my apple which is still in hiding, at least until I notice the hint of applesauce. Take sleep seriously under piles of blankets, it is a good thing to do for yourself. I shall be out on the path with my lamp, watching; two o'clock and all's well.
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