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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Oh hey! It’s a crappy poetry day! I need to get out more, I think. I see the sun shining through the blinds, but I’m sitting here with bad lighting, pain and a seriously funky attitude just beyond the sunbeams.
Yes you’re beautiful
and I love you so
Too bad I have to lie
and never tell you though
If the truth sets you free
I’ll spend my life in slavery
Fearful of what you’d say
or what you thought of me
You are so beautiful
it hurts to know
I always want to hold you
but I cannot do so
You’ll never be mine,
I’ll always be yours
silently waiting
for a love that doesn’t know
Destroy me, caress me
Set me free, please
I don’t know how much longer
I can live with thoughts like these
Yes you’re beautiful
and I love you so.
My shoulder has improved a bit, but is still painful to use, and my left arm is still considerably weaker. I need to go back for a recheck and to discuss surgical options, but I really do not feel like being hacked open. If only I were a Lego figurine, the doctor could just snap a new arm on and I would be on my way. Oh, to be shiny and plastic . . . oh crap!- now I’ve got Aqua’s Barbie Girl stuck in my head. Damn damn damn! If it’s going to be Barbie, I’d rather have John Hiatt’s Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari mushing up my mind.
Speaking of mush, here’s what has been on my mind of late:
Our sheep are so good. We went away for eight days, and they waited until our return to start popping out more lambs. We’ve now got five new bundles of wool and stick-like legs racing about the paddock, getting lost and crying for mom.
I will post pictures eventually, I swear. We visited friends and family, wandering from Connecticut to New York to D.C., getting rained on, throwing up and having a grand time. The family consensus is that we will never again visit Manhattan, but want to get back to D.C. as soon as possible, assuming we drive there rather than fly. Neither Jennie nor the boy-child will willingly board an airplane again.
Until I get pictures up, here’s the summary of our trip:
Day 1: Flew, Jennie went clammy, couldn’t talk and had to be led off the plane. The boy-child developed awe-inspiring flatulence and dealt with his fear by gassing the rows around him.
Day 2: Spent time with Erik and Deb and their kids, lots of mud, fun. Oh, and the Mark Twain house.
Day 3: Drove to upstate NY to spend time with my aunt, uncle and cousin there. The boy-child decided it was time to start vomiting. We had a wonderful lunch, some conversation and rested, then drove into Manhattan.
Day 4-5: Wandered about Manhattan, getting rained on. Constant haranguing by people trying to sell tours. The boy-child continued being ill for a while. Central Park in the rain is not a pleasure.
Day 6: Walked through more rain, then boarded a bus to D.C.. Not a bad way to travel, although it would have been better if we hadn’t all been soaked. D.C. is sunny, our hotel rooms are large, and we all are much happier. Jennie, Vally and I go walkabout and end up with Greek for dinner, then ice cream. Hopefully the kids found their way to the buffet at the hotel.
Day 7: Vally and I power-walk to the National Mall and check out the monuments from end to end. We make it into three of the Smithsonian buildings before meeting friends and family. Jennie and the kids move at a bit more sedate a pace. Definitely better than N.Y..
Day 8: We hop a train, then a plane, then another plane, and it is plain that it is a pain for the boy-child and Jennie. We’re home. The horses escape twice in our absence, and the house-sitter has left a trail of destruction behind her. And two pizzas. We prefer the pizza to the destruction. And one of the cats is splattered on the side of the road. We’re ready to go back to D.C..
Okay, enough summarization. I need to work.
Oh yeah, and in case you wondered why a white-bread honky like be would care about immigration reform, it is because of stupid crap the INS does, like this. These people are productive members of Coeur d’Alene society. They are serving delicious food, paying taxes, and making our city (okay, the city right next to me) a little better. Having your family torn apart because of a forgotten form in our immigration process is pretty sucky.
So, health care reform passed. My daughter’s civics teacher is going to be ticked. She (a public school teacher, her salary paid for via taxes) feels that her taxes shouldn’t be spent to help other people. Not very civic-minded . . . I’m not sure why the TeaBag Army, or whatever they are calling themselves these days, as so upset — we are still letting insurance companies extort their customers and there’s no public option. Still, I suppose the President is still black, so perhaps that is their primary complaint. Poor Baggers. Is it too early to start pushing for an updated HCR with the public option?
I really expected this health care thing to fail. I even planned out my giant Democratic Waffle Breakfast, in honor of our giant Democratic Waffling. Instead I am dining on Hope and Change (and a shrimp omelette with rosemary potato wedges). It will be interesting to see how this plays out here in Idaho. Our dimwitted governor has already promised to fight health care reform, suing the federal government and throwing a giant hissy fit. I assume he plans on holding his breath until he passes out. Idahoans are not a very health-oriented lot. We would rather keep our heavily-leaded lakes and gorgeous phosphate and heavy metal polluted streams, trusting that the brain damage from all of the toxins keep the populace from thinking about silly things like their health. It is beautiful up here, but for those of us who feel we should be working towards a common good, rather lonely.
So, now that there is some sort of health care reform, it’s time to get all Hopey-Changey on President Obama’s immigration reform pledge. After months of hearing how all of us libs are ramming health care down the throats of the cons, I am ready to ram something new down the throats of the Screeching Minority. Why do I feel tingly all of a sudden? . . .
