It’s time to unwind, relax from the week, the month and new year. Shortly tonight, we go to 6 Rivers and have a beer. If friends could join, that would be great. If not, we’ll still have fun, although you’ll wish you’d shared our fate. 
I need to quit trying to rhyme . . .
Oliphant Parts
Reframing Reality
Archives: January 2011
More Beer, Please
Break My Fingers If I Get Poetic Again
Stare into the noonday sun
and feel the heat upon me
I used to know a girl who turned me ’round
crazy and beautiful and a little bit scary
she stole my heart away.
Days pass by, the girl is gone
nothing but memories of yesterday.
Thinking back on early love
it’s easy to dismiss
feelings that were once so strong
no more than a shadow’s kiss today.
Stare into the noonday sun
and feel the heat upon me
These days I know a woman who’s turned me ’round
crazy and beautiful and much more scary
she steals my heart away.
Days pass by and I wonder
will she become just memories too?
Or is this what I’ll look upon
years from this time now
and realize these feelings
are the ones that do not fade away.
Misplaced Hope
Moonstone Beach is memories. A first kiss, painful goodbyes, a childhood in the surf and sand and river. I have picnicked here, lost my clothes and found warmth and ecstasy in a lover here, discovered in deafening silence the vast distance between you and me. And today I watch the sunset, and two dogs running in surf, barking at waves. Further out, a pair of surfers are paddling to sea. Unfortunately, there is a vast fog bank stretching north and south as far as the eye can see, so really, I have to imagine the sun setting behind pink-tinged fog.
I try not to get my hopes up that you will join me. It would not be a Humboldt County beach without the skunky stench of weed, would it? Still, I would not mind a few hits myelf to dull my hopes. I would make a fool of myself, hacking and gagging, but if it quelled my hope for you and suppressed the eventual dissapointment of no you, it would be worth it. Some day I hope to have the words to express how I feel when you are not with me. As every day ends, I say goodbye, my love.
Let’s Not Be Friends
Men really are pigs, aren’t they? I spent last evening in the company of the dear Mrs. O (aka “The Wife”) and the enchanting Mrs. M (aka “Not The Wife”), enjoying a pint of IPA, several pints of water and fascinating/painful/arousing/embarrassing conversation. Jennie, less reasonably, but still responsibly, enjoyed two pints of Jacob Marley, and Rachel had a few more than that of Chili Pepper Ale.
Because we had a concert (Boy-Child, bass clarinet, other side of town) to attend earlier, we were a few minutes late meeting Mrs. M, which was all the opportunity a frumpy 1970′s-pornstached lothario needed to make his moves on Mrs. M. Mrs. M is very outgoing, friendly, and not shy at all (pretty much covered that in the outgoing, didn’t I? Well, we need to make this point clear: Mrs. M is not shy).
When we arrived, Mrs. M was sitting at the bar, smiling slightly, being hovered over by said pornstache. He was trying, from what I could tell, to sit in her lap. He was NOT pleased when I found us a table in another room and dragged her off.
Half an hour into our beer and conversation, Mrs. M noticed him standing at the other end of the room, pressing at his phone and carefully not quite looking our way. Every few minutes, he edged closer. Somehow he managed to grab Mrs. M’s arse as she went to get another beer, and mistook Jennie’s smile as she passed him as a signal to move in even closer. By the time I got up to use the restroom, he was hiding behind a pillar next to us, staring more intently at his phone.
As we walked Mr. M out the door and to her car, he followed partway, hoping, I suppose, that we would leave her alone long enough so he could offer her his famed moustache ride. Really, could you have been any more creepy?
Tear Down The Wall
Ugh. So tired. I think I’m done, ready to wrap up this blog and throw it away. Words are useless, painful things that distract me from the task at hand. I write code now, not stories or bad poetry. And I refuse to blog about code. Is there any point in continuing with this thing? If there is, I don’t see it. I’ve noticed a lot of other blogs going by the wayside as their authors wised up and moved on with their lives. It is time I did the same.
Food Rebel
It goes to show that I am rigid and lacking in imagination. Where she sees the sensuous dining experience of finger food, I see a fully-dressed house salad and someone who needs to pick up her damned fork. Dining at 6 Rivers is always an entertaining, albeit frequently overly-loud and understaffed, experience, and Saturday night did not disappoint. The joy of people-watching was abundant, as I scanned the crowd for sportsball fans, semi-rowdy drunks, misfits and young lovers in lust. Of the latter, it was the mid-thirties woman on what I hoped was not a first date, who had not yet learned that salad is not typically finger food. Who am I to judge? Maybe she likes the cool, creamy feeling of dressing sliding down her fingers.
At fourteen, my daughter is finally accepting that some foods should be eaten with a fork if you do not want to draw scorn or disgust from your peers. I imagine that, should I manage to convince her that salad ingredients are truly food, she will have figured out the whole fork and salad thing before long.
I turned back to look at the rest of the crowd for new entertainment. The mesmerizing set of eyeglasses on one furry fellow captivated me. Why had I not thought of extending the lifespan of older glasses by replacing the temples with pencils and rubber bands?
By the time I returned to Salad Fingers, the main course had arrived. Fortunately, the boyfriend/date/companion/victim knew what he was doing, as he ordered a pizza as the main course, saving his date from the awkwardness of trying to shovel handfuls of spaghetti into her mouth. And I am just glad she ordered salad, not soup, as the first course.
An Education
I am a firm believer that you should learn something new every day. Whether it be a new recipe, the square root of some ridiculous number, or how to julienne a carrot (you can julienne carrots, can’t you? Hm, I may have my next learning experience picked out already!), it is good to learn and to expand your horizons. With learning, comes knowledge, and a greater sense of self. You have new experiences, a richer life history, and something to look back upon, good or bad.
So what did I learn today? I am SO glad you asked that — today I learned that you should not accidentally pat the largest ram in your flock of sheep on the head, especially not during breeding season. His response will be to back up and immediately ram you in the back of the knees after you turn your back. Then when you turn around and start uttering obscenities and calling his lineage into question (with particularly horrible things said about his mother), he will look at you with eyes wide, as if to say “What? You touched my head, dude! You obviously felt it was time to butt heads, er, head and knees!” Although considering that he spends most of his day chewing cud and licking himself inappropriately, the thought process may have been less cogent and more Zen-like. What is the sound of one ram laughing? Absolute silence, if today is to judge.
C'Mon, turn around!
Cameras, Ropes and Down On All Fours . . .
Monday evening and I feel the outcast. The sun sets over the Pacific, and I am the only one on Moonstone without a dog, camera or climbing equipment. Judging by the preponderance of four-legged friends and ropes, I am in the serious minority not having two, if not all three, of these.
It is warm out and the wind I was afraid would make this a bone-chilling misery, is pleasantly absent. If I weren’t such a stickler about sand in the nether-regions, I’d lie down and make sand angels. Yes, this is the place. Why did I ever leave?
It feels like Spring, which probably explains my grin. Either that, or the images, unbidden, that flit in and out of my mind when I think of cameras, ropes and down on all fours . . . Oh my! Okay, enough of that.
Common Themes For Me
I slipped away from the pages, distracted by the move. I have no illusions; it will happen again and again. For now, if only briefly, I am back and writing down the lumps that clog my brain. Occasionally I even manage to get them from paper to computer, rather than the usual path of paper to wastebasket. Two trickles of paragraphs, one from each of the last two weekends, flow below:
There is something dead by the roadside, here on scenic drive. I will assume it is dog or deer and not human, as I have no interest in sliding down to see. Whatever it was, it was large in life, and is now just bones. I prefer the ocean as my scenery. Rocks and waves, the spray of tidal surge, sea meets stone on a grey day. There is more Pampas grass than I remember. Another invader run amok on the hills above my waves. It may be grey, and damp, and cold, and mildewed, but it is where I can be happy. A walk among the ferns and redwoods, searching for trillium or counting banana slugs and I am content. A salty tang to the breeze, the roar of storm surge and raindrops splashing on dry sand. Yes, I am home. And soon, a glass of good wine and a warm fire, and I hope to never leave the sea again.
I do not wish to wait for Spring. I cannot wait for the month of May. To smell the blossoms on the trees, apple or cherry, and hear the buzzing of the bees. I need the touch of warming weather, sunshine without the bite of winter. New lambs, budding bushes and butterflies, and me beneath a tree, special pen in hand, scribbling out nonsense and gibberish as life comes back into the world. Those are my wishes, and small and petty as they may be, they are what is consuming me.
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