The Blank Page
I hear a gentle breeze. If only I could feel it. I can in my mind smell bacon dipped in brown sugar. I can see it in the oven. Too hot for an oven. Turn the oven off. Open the freezer door and stick your head inside. Bat your eyelashes against the ice cube trays. Talk to the cat all seriously now, no baby talk. Would you like me to shave off your fur? Might the mice ostracize you? Decisions are not easy.
A hammer pounding a nail goes crack then echo echo echo. Hunger begins. I drink water pretending it is steak. I am not a vegetarian. I rarely pretend the water is asparagus although I enjoy asparagus. Enjoy may be awkward. The asparagus coated in olive oil and salt sizzles under the broiler next to the bubbling bacon dipped in brown sugar.
A man wants to be careful about sounding experimental.
...more recent posts
Bird
The Caretaker's Grueling Efforts
He doesn't see raindrops falling he sees dollar signs. He's got the blades sharpened and the tank full of gas that he stole from me. Later in the day the sky will open, the driveway will become a stream and then an etched dry creek bed. Some kind of animal died in the basement, in the bathtub down there, looks like a pretty good while ago. I can't even tell what it is but I am hoping it is not that lady's cat from across the road. Looks like an inflated stuffed animal with all the air let out of it. I could justify not cleaning it up by saying I have much else to do, which is true, but unless someone moseys onto the property today whom I can bribe with cash to do it I will have to do it myself. I don't want to though. I hope I have made that clear. What? Oh the stinkbugs seem a minor nuisance compared to that dead animal but they really have gotten out of hand up at the Bighouse. And are of course a longer term problem. I googled how to and then the letter e and google knew from that just what I wanted. How to eradicate stink bugs it filled in for me. So I got some product on order and I'll spray it around when it gets here. Looking for a dry spell in the day and then I'll off load those limbs on the trailer to the brush pile. Had to cut down that big willow by the pond. The original willow, not the four or five that have been planted since. It had been dying slowly over the last couple of years but this year it turned up just completely dead, hovering over the pond, so it is in its cut up entirety piled high on the trailer with the bottom eight feet of heavy stump cut up into manageable pieces and sitting in the back of the Polaris utility vehicle. I'm eating the last of that granola now, still eating it dry because I would have to leave the property to get milk. I fold the edges of the gallon Ziplock bag outward in a rolling fashion and I just stick my face down into the now shallower bag and then push up from the bottom forcing the good granola bits into my mouth. It's pretty much gone now. No walnuts or almonds left that's for sure. I'm going to have a second cup of coffee. I can hear cars going by behind me out there on Main Street. So somebody is out there doing something. Not everybody is just sitting around drinking coffee. Yesterday I called a air and heat guy for one last hey what the hell and if you can't come out and finish thanks for the years of service anyway but I'll need to call in someone else. And I did call someone else and they were ready to come out and the other guy called and said he would come out so I had to call the second guy back and say sorry to waste your time but thank you for being so ready and eager. I am hoping that takes care of my calling for awhile but I know it won't because I must call the pool guy today and dammit my sister who just wants to check in and have a simple brief conversation is that so hard for you to understand. Just call your sister. Why you gotta make every simple thing so damn hard? I used 23 of my 300 cell phone minutes and 10 of my 300 text messages last month. Now I'm pretty sure 13 or more of those minutes were me listening to my few messages but I can't account for the other 5 or ten minutes. Well my sister is in CA so I can't call her this early. She doesn't want to talk to me that much.
He doesn't see raindrops falling he sees dollar signs. He's got the blades sharpened and the tank full of gas that he stole from me. Later in the day the sky will open, the driveway will become a stream and then an etched dry creek bed. Some kind of animal died in the basement, in the bathtub down there, looks like a pretty good while ago. I can't even tell what it is but I am hoping it is not that lady's cat from across the road. Looks like an inflated stuffed animal with all the air let out of it. I could justify not cleaning it up by saying I have much else to do, which is true, but unless someone moseys onto the property today whom I can bribe with cash to do it I will have to do it myself. I don't want to though. I hope I have made that clear. What? Oh the stinkbugs seem a minor nuisance compared to that dead animal but they really have gotten out of hand up at the Bighouse. And are of course a longer term problem. I googled how to and then the letter e and google knew from that just what I wanted. How to eradicate stink bugs it filled in for me. So I got some product on order and I'll spray it around when it gets here. Looking for a dry spell in the day and then I'll off load those limbs on the trailer to the brush pile. Had to cut down that big willow by the pond. The original willow, not the four or five that have been planted since. It had been dying slowly over the last couple of years but this year it turned up just completely dead, hovering over the pond, so it is in its cut up entirety piled high on the trailer with the bottom eight feet of heavy stump cut up into manageable pieces and sitting in the back of the Polaris utility vehicle. I'm eating the last of that granola now, still eating it dry because I would have to leave the property to get milk. I fold the edges of the gallon Ziplock bag outward in a rolling fashion and I just stick my face down into the now shallower bag and then push up from the bottom forcing the good granola bits into my mouth. It's pretty much gone now. No walnuts or almonds left that's for sure. I'm going to have a second cup of coffee. I can hear cars going by behind me out there on Main Street. So somebody is out there doing something. Not everybody is just sitting around drinking coffee. Yesterday I called a air and heat guy for one last hey what the hell and if you can't come out and finish thanks for the years of service anyway but I'll need to call in someone else. And I did call someone else and they were ready to come out and the other guy called and said he would come out so I had to call the second guy back and say sorry to waste your time but thank you for being so ready and eager. I am hoping that takes care of my calling for awhile but I know it won't because I must call the pool guy today and dammit my sister who just wants to check in and have a simple brief conversation is that so hard for you to understand. Just call your sister. Why you gotta make every simple thing so damn hard? I used 23 of my 300 cell phone minutes and 10 of my 300 text messages last month. Now I'm pretty sure 13 or more of those minutes were me listening to my few messages but I can't account for the other 5 or ten minutes. Well my sister is in CA so I can't call her this early. She doesn't want to talk to me that much.
Hard Top
Twice in two days, that is once one day and then once again a separate succeeding day. Two convertibles come up this rain washed gravel driveway. Sightseers. Nothing to see folks, move along. The second convertible was a hard top. You push an unassuming button on the console between the seats. The trunk opens up and there is the imagined whirring of gears and machinery, cranks and levers operated manually by thousands of miniature bad children, those children who did not do what their parents said they ought. Occasionally there is the lopped off finger of the daydreamer. I am sitting in the drivers seat with the door open. Nothing is happening. Mr BC is out on the passenger side, doors and windows closed and he is giving me detailed instructions of which I hear not a peep. Finally I get out and say Hello? Do you not understand that when you buy this German engineering there are costs? You can't stand out there talking and think someone inside can hear you like they could if this were a 1972 Chevy Nova. No, not even if they have their door open on the opposite side. I did not hear a word you said. Perhaps your son could get in here and show us how it works. And he did and the top came down and Mr. BC climbed into the back seat with the agility of a grown man climbing into the back seat of a convertible. I have at least temporary full rotation of the neck and waist and so am able to twist around and move out from under his feet the hard hat and 20 pounds of Nikon camera. Driving around Rappahannock County, driving slow after eating that pizza, not so good but which I am now finishing for breakfast, looking for that opportunity to see what happens when you...go 20 to 70 in was that two seconds? I have a grand idea. After we gas up I am, instead of driving myself home and bidding BC and son adieu, going to keep driving. Hey dad would you tell this guy I have school tomorrow. The sun is just setting. Highway signs are whizzing by. There is no direction only forward momentum. No really Jim, I have that seminar in Florida tomorrow afternoon, we can do this another time. So there aren't airports in Chicago? Relax. Let's break this baby in. You don't even have any beer stains on these leather seats yet.
The second convertible, this the one on the second day, comes up spinning gravel in a way that means trouble. I wait for it to quickly leave so I don't have to use cuss words. To quote the famous Irish philosopher, ewww people. But it was Mr. BC, having made the driveway loop up at the Bighouse now parked down the hill in my driveway. I haven't seen him in awhile. Hey, when'd you get that? Couple of days ago he answered.
Twice in two days, that is once one day and then once again a separate succeeding day. Two convertibles come up this rain washed gravel driveway. Sightseers. Nothing to see folks, move along. The second convertible was a hard top. You push an unassuming button on the console between the seats. The trunk opens up and there is the imagined whirring of gears and machinery, cranks and levers operated manually by thousands of miniature bad children, those children who did not do what their parents said they ought. Occasionally there is the lopped off finger of the daydreamer. I am sitting in the drivers seat with the door open. Nothing is happening. Mr BC is out on the passenger side, doors and windows closed and he is giving me detailed instructions of which I hear not a peep. Finally I get out and say Hello? Do you not understand that when you buy this German engineering there are costs? You can't stand out there talking and think someone inside can hear you like they could if this were a 1972 Chevy Nova. No, not even if they have their door open on the opposite side. I did not hear a word you said. Perhaps your son could get in here and show us how it works. And he did and the top came down and Mr. BC climbed into the back seat with the agility of a grown man climbing into the back seat of a convertible. I have at least temporary full rotation of the neck and waist and so am able to twist around and move out from under his feet the hard hat and 20 pounds of Nikon camera. Driving around Rappahannock County, driving slow after eating that pizza, not so good but which I am now finishing for breakfast, looking for that opportunity to see what happens when you...go 20 to 70 in was that two seconds? I have a grand idea. After we gas up I am, instead of driving myself home and bidding BC and son adieu, going to keep driving. Hey dad would you tell this guy I have school tomorrow. The sun is just setting. Highway signs are whizzing by. There is no direction only forward momentum. No really Jim, I have that seminar in Florida tomorrow afternoon, we can do this another time. So there aren't airports in Chicago? Relax. Let's break this baby in. You don't even have any beer stains on these leather seats yet.
The second convertible, this the one on the second day, comes up spinning gravel in a way that means trouble. I wait for it to quickly leave so I don't have to use cuss words. To quote the famous Irish philosopher, ewww people. But it was Mr. BC, having made the driveway loop up at the Bighouse now parked down the hill in my driveway. I haven't seen him in awhile. Hey, when'd you get that? Couple of days ago he answered.
The Tagger
I was coming back from a shopping spree. I had from over at the Chinese grocery on Ludlow two bags of pine nugget cat litter and from the Essex Market I had picked up vegetables for juicing, a bag of coffee, over-priced toilet paper, some sliced mangos, and a carton of half and half. In total my purchases weighed between 12 and 14 pounds. I was carrying them in three plastic bags, two in one hand, one in the other and they dangled swaying from my claws a matter of inches or several hundred feet above the topography that was a gum spotted sidewalk or freshly mown field where mice scurried.
Bernadette's sister, Magdalena, was preparing to clean from the window glass in front of the building a white marker tag measuring about two by five inches. Hello Magdalena, I said. I released from my one claw the heavier bags and dug into my front pocket for the front door key. While Magdalena descended into the basement for more cleaning supplies I traced my index finger over the tag, thinking perhaps that I might discern something meaningful from the feel of it, the texture of the ink; that I might in fact crack this case of the persistent New York tagger, the ticker tape parade in my honor going down as one for the ages, the New York Post celebrating me with an uncharacteristically straightforward headline--jimlouis, not a fuckup, anymore.
Instead I am flanked by two well meaning newly trained shiny and I mean shiny New York City cops. The shiniest one addresses me while the just moving towards pudginess shiny one stays hidden to my right side periphery, judging, in this case correctly, that he is to the side of my bad eye. Excuse me sir, the lead cop says to get my attention. Just him being a cop got my attention but the excuse me sir I have to admit was a very nice touch. The polite introduction implies that he is clearly, by himself, prepared to play good cop and bad cop. While the cop to my flank plays the quiet, baton-fingering menace. I have been in the past so impressed by a good good cop routine that I have now at this time forgotten all about the particular misdeameanor or minor felony and can only recall the cop and his finesse in the field of human interaction.
The cop is clearly interested in the rather unremarkable scribbled grafitti. He motions towards it. I follow his lead and am looking in the correct general direction when he utters--what is that?
Oh now I know where he is going with this and I must say I am a little taken aback. I retort, perhaps too quickly--my good sir, I am not "a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; a one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch..." And I will have you know that the number of years passed since last I have been spoken to in such a manner, with such implication by one of your profession is no short interlude. While I will not demand an apology I must still suggest strongly that you be on your way and waste no bit of yourself looking back.
Or in fact I did not say that but only wished for a place to insert that nifty insult from Act 2 Scene 2 King Lear which I was fortunately able to attend with Yonder Fair Maiden a few nights ago in Brooklyn.
I said in petulant voice (let's face it a little hurt by the accusation soon coming)--that's a tag.
The cop nodded a triumphant yet reserved Ah Ha and then asked me, did you just do that?
Did I just tag my own building, I said, dissmissively, and feeling that rising tone of anger best not reserved for cops or other humans I was then luckily interrupted by the returning Magdalena coming up from the basement saying (and picking up right where my tone had left off) Nooo, he didn't...and this followed quickly by the appearance of Bernadette bringing into clarity for these young cops how a simple grafitti bust can turn into a one act you don't really need to attend entitled Two Women Not to Mess With.
And no sooner had they arrived they were off. And now these days later gazing out the window at the Shenandoah peak known as The Peak all I can think about is damn I wish I had those vegetables and the juicer here and, is it a bad thing to eat nothing but homemade granola cereal for three days. Shouldn't I add some milk this time instead of drinking it dry, from a highball glass?
I was coming back from a shopping spree. I had from over at the Chinese grocery on Ludlow two bags of pine nugget cat litter and from the Essex Market I had picked up vegetables for juicing, a bag of coffee, over-priced toilet paper, some sliced mangos, and a carton of half and half. In total my purchases weighed between 12 and 14 pounds. I was carrying them in three plastic bags, two in one hand, one in the other and they dangled swaying from my claws a matter of inches or several hundred feet above the topography that was a gum spotted sidewalk or freshly mown field where mice scurried.
Bernadette's sister, Magdalena, was preparing to clean from the window glass in front of the building a white marker tag measuring about two by five inches. Hello Magdalena, I said. I released from my one claw the heavier bags and dug into my front pocket for the front door key. While Magdalena descended into the basement for more cleaning supplies I traced my index finger over the tag, thinking perhaps that I might discern something meaningful from the feel of it, the texture of the ink; that I might in fact crack this case of the persistent New York tagger, the ticker tape parade in my honor going down as one for the ages, the New York Post celebrating me with an uncharacteristically straightforward headline--jimlouis, not a fuckup, anymore.
Instead I am flanked by two well meaning newly trained shiny and I mean shiny New York City cops. The shiniest one addresses me while the just moving towards pudginess shiny one stays hidden to my right side periphery, judging, in this case correctly, that he is to the side of my bad eye. Excuse me sir, the lead cop says to get my attention. Just him being a cop got my attention but the excuse me sir I have to admit was a very nice touch. The polite introduction implies that he is clearly, by himself, prepared to play good cop and bad cop. While the cop to my flank plays the quiet, baton-fingering menace. I have been in the past so impressed by a good good cop routine that I have now at this time forgotten all about the particular misdeameanor or minor felony and can only recall the cop and his finesse in the field of human interaction.
The cop is clearly interested in the rather unremarkable scribbled grafitti. He motions towards it. I follow his lead and am looking in the correct general direction when he utters--what is that?
Oh now I know where he is going with this and I must say I am a little taken aback. I retort, perhaps too quickly--my good sir, I am not "a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; a one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch..." And I will have you know that the number of years passed since last I have been spoken to in such a manner, with such implication by one of your profession is no short interlude. While I will not demand an apology I must still suggest strongly that you be on your way and waste no bit of yourself looking back.
Or in fact I did not say that but only wished for a place to insert that nifty insult from Act 2 Scene 2 King Lear which I was fortunately able to attend with Yonder Fair Maiden a few nights ago in Brooklyn.
I said in petulant voice (let's face it a little hurt by the accusation soon coming)--that's a tag.
The cop nodded a triumphant yet reserved Ah Ha and then asked me, did you just do that?
Did I just tag my own building, I said, dissmissively, and feeling that rising tone of anger best not reserved for cops or other humans I was then luckily interrupted by the returning Magdalena coming up from the basement saying (and picking up right where my tone had left off) Nooo, he didn't...and this followed quickly by the appearance of Bernadette bringing into clarity for these young cops how a simple grafitti bust can turn into a one act you don't really need to attend entitled Two Women Not to Mess With.
And no sooner had they arrived they were off. And now these days later gazing out the window at the Shenandoah peak known as The Peak all I can think about is damn I wish I had those vegetables and the juicer here and, is it a bad thing to eat nothing but homemade granola cereal for three days. Shouldn't I add some milk this time instead of drinking it dry, from a highball glass?
Sky
The Nest
I was thinking ahead. I ordered the poison, the pruner, the repellant, and a pair of protective bifocal sunglass goggles of a style that would make me look trailer park. I spent over 200 dollars (the deer repellant is very expensive; and the two guys I hired to kill my deer this winter apparently suck at it) so I also got a free Leatherman with my order. It is the starter model and only comes with a knife blade and a pair of pliers and a built in belt clip for when just carrying it in your pocket is not good enough or for when you really want to drive the chicks wild. Chicks, and I'm not even wearing my trailer park goggles when I say this, just love a guy who sports the multi-use pocket knife from his belt. Drives them crazy.
Moving along shy of light speed none of the above is pertinent. Or only marginally so. If you had goggles why weren't you wearing them? Just wasn't I respond. It wasn't Bernadette doing the asking because she doesn't know about the goggles. We don't tell each other everything until it's too late.
Last year I just used the chainsaw but I had the new pruners and was eager to play with them. I had already played with the Leatherman to the point of the only thing left to do was cut myself badly from not leaving well enough alone. Not realizing or accepting that the free gift only has two functions and no matter how many different ways I pried along its six sides I was never going to get more than two functions, a knife and a plier. As if a corkscrew or an awl was going to make my life that much better.
I am writing this with one eye closed and crying, but only from that one eye closed. Well I poked it with a thorn bush and it now just leaks two three hours at a time like a faucet with a dry rotted washer. I have some percocet so thats nice. Bernadette calls me Popeye for no other reason than she can't seem to help herself. She also gives me helpful advice but how seriously are you going to take someone who calls you Popeye for no other reason than she can't help herself? Which is somewhat pertinent because can I tell her something now without her repeating it to her brother who is out here helping me? No way to know until you know. Every minute of every day is a crapshoot.
So the brother is helping me out and today we moved inside to do a little clean up in the bighouse because some beginner crazy person girl moved in there over the winter and apparently cleaning up after herself was not part of her crazy person girl skill set. Hey crazy girl, did you steal that big spaghetti pot?
I'm looking under the kitchen sink for cleaning supplies while brother man vacuums (urgent update: single salty tear marches down my right your left cheek) and there is in the back a mouses nest of torn paper towels and...its been there awhile...before I left out of here early winter it was one of the things I saw and later told my local assistant I would be glad for him to take care of. The thing is by the time he got to it the crazy girl had moved in and she would not respond to his persistent knocking and when I finally insisted he use the key and enter so he could call me from the only working phone on the property and report to me the contents of a specific piece of mail or two, she came from a back room and said—I'm afraid. It's not like my local assistant was wearing bifocal sunglass goggles. She was just afraid, I suppose, that he was going to violate her like he violated that lock. But he's a good guy, not the violating type at all, which she would have realized if she opened the damn door once in a while. But he never got to that mouse nest is the thing.
I'm looking at it and the brother comes over because I said oh shit and that made him curious. I told him what it was and then he ask what it was made of. I said oh the usual, paper towels and dried snake skins, and that made him laugh sort of, because if or when, on those rare occasions I have any sense of humor at all it might be considered dry. It was then that I realized or thought I remembered something Bernadette told me once about him having a proper fear of snakes and so I laughed back sort of, in that way you do when you are happy that someone got your joke. A joke between two men about paper towels and snake skins. I was then very careful to get all the paper towel and probably to most what would fairly be considered a surprisingly large amount of shedded snake skin into the trash bag before brother man realized that the house in which he was spending the next several nights was on most nights already occupied. I don't know if Bernadette will tell her brother this anymore than I know the number of times I will be Popeye before becoming the next name on the list that includes some real doozies. Snake Eye McGillicuddy would be funny, once.
I was thinking ahead. I ordered the poison, the pruner, the repellant, and a pair of protective bifocal sunglass goggles of a style that would make me look trailer park. I spent over 200 dollars (the deer repellant is very expensive; and the two guys I hired to kill my deer this winter apparently suck at it) so I also got a free Leatherman with my order. It is the starter model and only comes with a knife blade and a pair of pliers and a built in belt clip for when just carrying it in your pocket is not good enough or for when you really want to drive the chicks wild. Chicks, and I'm not even wearing my trailer park goggles when I say this, just love a guy who sports the multi-use pocket knife from his belt. Drives them crazy.
Moving along shy of light speed none of the above is pertinent. Or only marginally so. If you had goggles why weren't you wearing them? Just wasn't I respond. It wasn't Bernadette doing the asking because she doesn't know about the goggles. We don't tell each other everything until it's too late.
Last year I just used the chainsaw but I had the new pruners and was eager to play with them. I had already played with the Leatherman to the point of the only thing left to do was cut myself badly from not leaving well enough alone. Not realizing or accepting that the free gift only has two functions and no matter how many different ways I pried along its six sides I was never going to get more than two functions, a knife and a plier. As if a corkscrew or an awl was going to make my life that much better.
I am writing this with one eye closed and crying, but only from that one eye closed. Well I poked it with a thorn bush and it now just leaks two three hours at a time like a faucet with a dry rotted washer. I have some percocet so thats nice. Bernadette calls me Popeye for no other reason than she can't seem to help herself. She also gives me helpful advice but how seriously are you going to take someone who calls you Popeye for no other reason than she can't help herself? Which is somewhat pertinent because can I tell her something now without her repeating it to her brother who is out here helping me? No way to know until you know. Every minute of every day is a crapshoot.
So the brother is helping me out and today we moved inside to do a little clean up in the bighouse because some beginner crazy person girl moved in there over the winter and apparently cleaning up after herself was not part of her crazy person girl skill set. Hey crazy girl, did you steal that big spaghetti pot?
I'm looking under the kitchen sink for cleaning supplies while brother man vacuums (urgent update: single salty tear marches down my right your left cheek) and there is in the back a mouses nest of torn paper towels and...its been there awhile...before I left out of here early winter it was one of the things I saw and later told my local assistant I would be glad for him to take care of. The thing is by the time he got to it the crazy girl had moved in and she would not respond to his persistent knocking and when I finally insisted he use the key and enter so he could call me from the only working phone on the property and report to me the contents of a specific piece of mail or two, she came from a back room and said—I'm afraid. It's not like my local assistant was wearing bifocal sunglass goggles. She was just afraid, I suppose, that he was going to violate her like he violated that lock. But he's a good guy, not the violating type at all, which she would have realized if she opened the damn door once in a while. But he never got to that mouse nest is the thing.
I'm looking at it and the brother comes over because I said oh shit and that made him curious. I told him what it was and then he ask what it was made of. I said oh the usual, paper towels and dried snake skins, and that made him laugh sort of, because if or when, on those rare occasions I have any sense of humor at all it might be considered dry. It was then that I realized or thought I remembered something Bernadette told me once about him having a proper fear of snakes and so I laughed back sort of, in that way you do when you are happy that someone got your joke. A joke between two men about paper towels and snake skins. I was then very careful to get all the paper towel and probably to most what would fairly be considered a surprisingly large amount of shedded snake skin into the trash bag before brother man realized that the house in which he was spending the next several nights was on most nights already occupied. I don't know if Bernadette will tell her brother this anymore than I know the number of times I will be Popeye before becoming the next name on the list that includes some real doozies. Snake Eye McGillicuddy would be funny, once.
Potatoes, A Shoehorn Saga
Indicative of my core nature as a non mingling social retard the waitresses at the Virginia diner don't, after 7 years, even know my name. Or if they do they don't call me by it. They are very nice and welcoming to me, like you would be to an old friend with whom you have nothing in common. After a certain point, if you don't get someone's name, you can't really go asking for it. That point would certainly fall before the 7 year mark. Been keeping busy? the one waitress asked me. If I were to suggest that depends on how you define busy it would only be the long version of just saying no. She saw me struggling with that one a little bit and said, been to New Orleans? I said no I had not (not any more recently than September) but hesitantly admitted I had been to the Middle East. That fell flat, like a pancake. We have blueberry pancakes the waitress said after the three beat. I often in the past would go for the pancake breakfast but not today. I'll just have the eggs and bacon and...homefries? the waitress filled in for me. Yes, that one. It has a name but I cannot remember it. It might be the farm breakfast. I have been away so long this time I had even forgotten how bad the homefries are. They do many things well at the diner but it honestly baffles me how consistently and uniquely bad the potatoes are. I hate to end on a bad note so I'll just resort to the old standard one word ending that in my experience always leaves them rolling in the isles. Shoehorn.
Indicative of my core nature as a non mingling social retard the waitresses at the Virginia diner don't, after 7 years, even know my name. Or if they do they don't call me by it. They are very nice and welcoming to me, like you would be to an old friend with whom you have nothing in common. After a certain point, if you don't get someone's name, you can't really go asking for it. That point would certainly fall before the 7 year mark. Been keeping busy? the one waitress asked me. If I were to suggest that depends on how you define busy it would only be the long version of just saying no. She saw me struggling with that one a little bit and said, been to New Orleans? I said no I had not (not any more recently than September) but hesitantly admitted I had been to the Middle East. That fell flat, like a pancake. We have blueberry pancakes the waitress said after the three beat. I often in the past would go for the pancake breakfast but not today. I'll just have the eggs and bacon and...homefries? the waitress filled in for me. Yes, that one. It has a name but I cannot remember it. It might be the farm breakfast. I have been away so long this time I had even forgotten how bad the homefries are. They do many things well at the diner but it honestly baffles me how consistently and uniquely bad the potatoes are. I hate to end on a bad note so I'll just resort to the old standard one word ending that in my experience always leaves them rolling in the isles. Shoehorn.
Unpleasantly By The River
It is not the only thing I wonder about on a Spring-like day in New York but I wonder if there are dead bodies under any of these miles of unmelted snow banks around the city? I wonder if under the dogshit dotted, urine spotted, fast food bag and bottle littered black carbon tinted snow banks could be somebody long ceasing to exist waiting to be discovered? But no not the only thing I was thinking today while walking with light jacket unzipped and sun in my face after chewing and not sharing a bit of two to go pizza slices by the river surrounded by hungry, begging, rather aggressive rats. No, they were squirrels. Would it be inappropriate for me, and this is the thing I was thinking, would it be inappropriate for me to not think squirrels are cute or to think actually with tails high in the air backlit by the late winter low lying sun, showing the spine of that bushy tail to be in fact even more repellant than the slender tapering hairy worm of a rat's tail that they and by they let me remind you it is squirrels I talk about, who scurrying around me, three and four at a time, close and closer until I kick at them, showing their raw flesh where patches of fur or hair have fallen out and I feel wrong about it even wondering if maybe they are doing me a favor by preparing me for that post apocalyptic future where down in the vacant subway tunnels I must contend with actual rats crawling over me while I sleep meaning me no harm really just keeping tabs on me in case I might be if not yet then soon dead and eatable, but as I started to say is it inappropriate for me to think them not cute and equate them to rats, unfairly (unfair to the rats that is who hardly ever gang up on a person in public eating pizza), and wish them ill. Unpleasant thinking indeed. I did not invite those squirrels to lunch. It was not my idea.
It is not the only thing I wonder about on a Spring-like day in New York but I wonder if there are dead bodies under any of these miles of unmelted snow banks around the city? I wonder if under the dogshit dotted, urine spotted, fast food bag and bottle littered black carbon tinted snow banks could be somebody long ceasing to exist waiting to be discovered? But no not the only thing I was thinking today while walking with light jacket unzipped and sun in my face after chewing and not sharing a bit of two to go pizza slices by the river surrounded by hungry, begging, rather aggressive rats. No, they were squirrels. Would it be inappropriate for me, and this is the thing I was thinking, would it be inappropriate for me to not think squirrels are cute or to think actually with tails high in the air backlit by the late winter low lying sun, showing the spine of that bushy tail to be in fact even more repellant than the slender tapering hairy worm of a rat's tail that they and by they let me remind you it is squirrels I talk about, who scurrying around me, three and four at a time, close and closer until I kick at them, showing their raw flesh where patches of fur or hair have fallen out and I feel wrong about it even wondering if maybe they are doing me a favor by preparing me for that post apocalyptic future where down in the vacant subway tunnels I must contend with actual rats crawling over me while I sleep meaning me no harm really just keeping tabs on me in case I might be if not yet then soon dead and eatable, but as I started to say is it inappropriate for me to think them not cute and equate them to rats, unfairly (unfair to the rats that is who hardly ever gang up on a person in public eating pizza), and wish them ill. Unpleasant thinking indeed. I did not invite those squirrels to lunch. It was not my idea.
Syrian Desert
I have to say I was never sure where we were, but more archaeology, and some sheep, really in the middle of nowhere.
I have to say I was never sure where we were, but more archaeology, and some sheep, really in the middle of nowhere.