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.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
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.
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