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.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
