Sam Cooke

Sam Cooke came over during lunch and we took a walk through the back alleys at work.  November and the sun followed us along, asked us to stay a minute longer, took us to the edge of town and wouldn't let us back in.  And we were sittin' in the sun, counting those greenbacks on the trees.  Sam sang Someday, Somewhere, like I'll never forget.  That's where it's at.

spider journal

journal entry 10-16-12:
A giant four-legger poked my web with a tree today.  Some of the architecture damaged but the main structure remains intact.  I think I scared him off by waving all my legs in his general direction.  Eight always beats four.  Especially when the competition can only walk with two of them.  So silly.  Even if they are bigger.

how we are friends

Once upon a time, I know your name.  I write you a letter.  I move into the neighborhood.  I see your faces.  I talk to you.  I come in to your house without knocking.  You help me move.  You get me started again.  You come to my parties.  You play me songs.  We become friends. 

Next, I call you a pretentious jerk.  You flake on a hang out or two.  I am a pretentious jerk. 

You call me out on it and I cry to be kind.  I invite you back again, and again you come.  You are kind.

I ask you questions.  You tell me stories.  I get defensive when I drive.  You are surprised.

We don't know what to do with one another.

So we eat together.

We share our food like brothers and sisters.

You let me sip your beer.

I let you eat half my hamburger.

Then we buy brownies and ice cream.

Thank God for everything that is not kosher, and everything that is.

Thank God for brownies and ice cream.

kyle, jimi, and resurrection

And what if you came to life
the same day that Jimi did?
And what if you came to my house
with him to play guitar?
And with what careening careful turns
would your motorcycle fly
on bygone paths
carrying your lady-love
your little sister
your family friends
an entire audience
free, breathless

it's new every morning

tea and paper clips
Christmas colored leaves
outside my window
at work
a new live possum
downstairs this time,
mercifully,
memorial service
and grief
things i can count on
being surprised by

in your neighborhood

I have a neighbor so beautiful that all the neighborhood dogs stand at attention when she passes by.  Stop, stare, puff their chests and salute. 

My baker speaks so kindly that fighting sea lions cease fire and fall over on their backs to be petted. 

My greengrocer smiles so warm that vegetables ripen for him in the middle of winter.

The preacher's wife plays so sweetly on her piano that all the neighborhood babies all fall asleep at exactly 2pm when she practices.  Parents keep their nursery windows open at night, and call her at all hours with song requests.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

I can see it now... the future!

I would like to form a pipe-smoking granny detection agency with my dear Canadian friend Robin, pipe-smoking-granny-in-training-extraordinaire!  I can see our futures now--a life of international crime fighting.  We'd best start now with annual meetings, rocking chairs and afghans.  We'll take up residence in a corner in a coffee/tea shop, and there'll be no stopping us.  Maybe one of the members  of our agency can write a gossip column where she accidentally documents vital clues for future cases, and through which she sends out secret coded messages.  It will be grand, and we will play matchmakers and break up weddings, walking the fine line between fairy godmother and guardian angel and girdled avenger.  We'll restore stolen goods, bring the dead back to life (well, maybe), and find homes for lost orphans.  Basically it'll be real cute and snarky. 

There's no way this won't make for the best kind of living there is.

My Brightest Diamond makes the world go 'round

In the land of make-believe, past the far corners of the known universe, lies exactly what we have known in the universe... and more... and sometimes less, but let's focus on the more.  In that highly implausible reality, all of My Brightest Diamond's songs come true. 

Stars explode,

suns tumble into the sea,

children pick apples from their grandfather's trees and they eat them, and sometimes when it's raining we do laundry. 

 

Let it happen, darling.  I won't mind.  

Commissioned Art

Official e-mail from sister, 9-12-12:

'i am hereby commissioning you to write a story, and i will pay you with FOOD. lots of good food. things will be sundry and various, but spinach fruit salad will be among them.

'you are hereby charged to use this line in your book:
"No self-respecting woman would ever give away her vanity."

'BECAUSE I THOUGHT OF IT. And I trust you to use it well.

'Go now and write.'

Ahem.

Once upon a time. A mealworm left some slop on her chinny-chin-chin. After she got home, she berated her husband for failing to alert her of the fact in the presence of her oldest and dearest friends.  He protested. "These are your oldest and dearest friends.  You have been together since larvae!  I do not think they would mind or notice.  Surely this has not done your pride any harm."  She informed him, with the wisdom, if not the appearance, of Cleopatra, of what any self-respecting man would be wise to remember: "(Insert sentence here.)"

what to do when no one is around

Call your sister back.  She will tell you her troubles and ask you for advice, and you will give her bad advice, lots of it, all in a row, and keep laughing through the phone line.  She will enjoy it eventually, and find an answer that pleases her.

Check facebook and instagram and see all the other people who may also have no one to talk to, so they write down everything they do and take lots of pictures.  Try it yourself.  It makes loneliness companionable.

Make a one-dish wonder for one in your tiny new cast iron skillet you got at a half off church basement sale.

Cut rhubarb from your back yard.  Call your parents and ask for recipes.  Make one in the wrong sized pan and purpose in your heart to feed it to your friends along with lavender ice cream when they return.

Play guitar for an hour at a time.  Repeat.  Impress yourself as you are starting to feel callouses on your fingertips.

Walk downtown.  Walk to your new bank which is closed.  Walk into a second (or third or fourth) hand furniture shop.  Note the condition of the futon mattress.  Walk out.

Walk to the library.  Get a library card.  Check out a book and two movies.  Get home, read some book, and decide to pop in the movies.  Due to the fact that you did not know that the movies needed to be gotten from the check out desk, there are no movies to watch and the now library is closed.  Purpose in your heart to return to the library at the earliest convenience.  (Note, the following week, that it has not yet been convenient.  Grimace.)

Go to church in the evening.  There are twelve people there, and they need to see you, too.  Love them and be thankful.

Go to your friends' house, because they are home now.  Feed them your bread-pudding-esque "rhubarb cobbler" in a bread pan, and ice cream, and stay for two hours.  Be thankful for them as they are good to you.  Be good to them and love them.  Play your practiced songs for them on a borrowed guitar.  Be glad you have had time to prepare something to share and present yourself as a gift.

fish tail

Once upon a time, I met up with you when you were having fish.  You sucked the bones dry and gave them to your cat to nurse.  Once you picked your teeth with the tines and twice you laughed when I told you not to be crass.  For all the times you haven't, I thank you.  Now it's time to put down the pole and come in from the hole and wipe the scales from near their eyes and set down a proper table, or the closest thing I've got to one.  It's time for white plates with silver edges and matching bowls from Goodwill.  It's time for now you get the coffee, and now I pour the tea, and we will have crackers and jam and sit just like this.

A prayer

Sometimes, a baby you know gets sick.  This baby has parents and love and dimples and blue eyes, and lives in the hospital as of two weeks ago.  Baby reminds you of Charles Wallace because he had problems with his mitochondria, too.  There was also something about farandolae which you're still not sure is real.  You cry sometimes, twice, for awhile, unexpectedly, 1. when his great aunt writes a post and tags your friends, his family, and 2. when you hear a sermon on people living with disabilities at your old church in Portland as you visit, one week after you find out that he may only live until age 15, if through the year, and that he will live in some state of disability.  You cry and you worship.

And then, especially then, you pray. 

And wait.

And listen...

about a squirrel and its morning run.

Today's story takes place at tree top level.  By a roof.  Outside my window.  And the telephone and other wires that criss-cross said spaces.  An hour or so after dawn's first light.  And the sprinting, pause, sprinting squirrel who crosses my full range of vision on the wire, expanding and contracting like an asthmatic worm.  Squirrel came, I saw, squirrel won.  Beginning, middle, end.

enough for today

It's about time for a new turn in the page.  This is where the cheese-eating champion pie maker leaves the docked boat and wrestles the slippery alligator in the bayou.  This is where the slobbering seventh-grader dons a tutu and swan dives into the lake.  Where the patina on the photograph begins to fade, and colors spring forth from black and white.  When the ICU nurse gasps at the children flying gleefully around the room.  A new leaf on the tree of stories.  A sudden blue circle in the sky.  A ten-foot pole crossing to the other side.

That's all I hope for today, for me, for you.

A feasible option

And instead of sailing off as a pirate, or sliding down a rainbow, or walking into a sunset, we went home, sat in the sunroom, watched the sunset, and drank our tea like an old married couple, like civilized human beings.

Room to Write

I have a room in which to write.  It is small and narrow and full of westward-facing windows.  I love it already.  So far, no writing has occurred.  Mainly the stars and sky and sun and water and I have been staring at one another in and out of time.  Here is my sabbath.  Here is where I do my work of rest.  With the seagulls, train whistles, and wind. 

In my room, I would like a small tall table, with two chairs, and a glider.  I have a tea pot, with two matching cups and saucers.  In the winter, I will move my oil heater into the room.  I will wear jackets and scarves and hats.  I will curl up with comforters and be comforted.  I will sit as close as I can get to the outside and hope the windows don't freeze over.  I will sleep out there in the summer.  I will.  My niece and nephew will play there.  My parents will sleep on a queen size blow up mattress that we will procure when they come to plant my garden in the spring. 

I will be very much in "the love that dances at the heart of things".  So much can this one room contain, receive, release.

Mythology and Myth-makers

My poet-friend Isaac was telling me the other day that back in school, folks would ask him what his mythology was--what inspired him, from where he drew his imagery and narratives.  Being honest, he replied, "Cartoons.  Darkwing Duck.  Tailspin."  I found that profound.  Beautiful, even.  And not just because my sixth grade teacher's brother designed the Darkwing Duckmobile and had a lovely copy of it hanging in the classroom.  No, not just for that reason.

A new friend, Caleb, talked about his sources for inspiration in writing fairy tales-- Tolkein, Lewis, MacDonald and the rest.  He expressed his jealous for their pool of sources, their mythology, which was in turn drawn from a more ancient and wide well.

My hero Malcolm loves Dante, who loved Virgil.  Dante was loved by George MacDonald, who was loved by C.S. Lewis, who all were in turn loved by Malcolm again.  Take a listen. I am longing to soak in the Divine Comedy, to be scalded and frozen by its hot springs and glacial streams before reaching baby bear's just right.

I want to throw my net wide, to listen well, to meet my very own living myths, who are also myth-makers.  I think I already have.

I want to write tall tales about the people I have known, and that I may yet know.  Who they are, and who they may yet become.  Amen.

P.S. My beautiful friend Kyle, who himself is the stuff of legends and a legend-maker in his own time, as he was often accused of inflating stories to make them larger than life, expressed it so magically to this effect: An elephant and a grasshopper may see the same event, but tell the tale differently.  Kyle, in his generous humility, saw the grandeur in others and participated in it himself by way of his singularly glowing vision.  George MacDonald alludes to a similar manner of seeing in his fairy tale Cross Purposes*, where the lover's eyes cast the glow of love on the face and path of the beloved in the dark, even while their own pathway remains unseen.  Kyle went around loving others and seeing their faces and paths ahead, as indeed he still must.  I have seen Jesus in that man time and again, and I have been seen.

-----

*  '"Dear Alice!" said Richard, "how pale you look!"
"How can you tell that, Richard, when all is as black as pitch?"
"I can see your face. It gives out light. Now I see your hands. Now I can see your feet. Yes, I can see every spot where you are going to--No, don't put your foot there. There is an ugly toad just there."

'The fact was, that the moment he began to love Alice, his eyes began to send forth light. What he thought came from Alice's face, really came from his eyes. All about her and her path he could see, and every minute saw better; but to his own path he was blind. He could not see his hand when he held it straight before his face, so dark was it. But he could see Alice, and that was better than seeing the way--ever so much.

'At length Alice too began to see a face dawning through the darkness. It was Richard's face; but it was far handsomer than when she saw it last. Her eyes had begun to give light too. And she said to herself--"Can it be that I love the poor widow's son?--I suppose that must be it," she answered herself, with a smile; for she was not disgusted with herself at all. Richard saw the smile, and was glad. Her paleness had gone, and a sweet rosiness had taken its place. And now she saw Richard's path as he saw hers, and between the two sights they got on well.'

The Bridge of Sighs

 Try these sighs on for size:

Aahhhh...
sighs of relief
sighs of longing
sighs of disappointment
sighs of weariness
sighs of joy (accompanied by smile)
sighs of contentment
sighs of hope

Sighs are my native language.  I'm sure I sighed before I said my first word.  And if the last death rattle breath comes out right, it will be a sigh.  Book ends, the embracing parenthesis.

The Music(al) G-nome.

The Music Genome Project. 
If you've ever listened to Pandora, you know what I am talking about.
It's the magic engine that sorts and supplies us with song.
Have you ever stopped to exactly who or what is behind it?

What mysteries are veiled in those few words? 
Is it G as in Gangster? 
Nome as in Alaska? 
Is this a corruption of "gnome"? 
Could we, in fact, be interacting with a Mythical Species? 
Or simply A Literal Phonetic Speaker?
Are gnomes generally known to be patrons of the arts?
What sets this particular musical gnome from the tundra/projects apart?
And is that a rhetorical question?

The world may never know... 
More highly scientific/speculative research is obviously required in this very important field.

Wine in jars

With eager lips
earthen vessels
stand open
to receive--
water turned wine

our brother's blood
cries from the earth--
our own stained clay

blessed communion
of the saints share
blood across time--
and space

we are
made of earth

creation
holding
creator

creator-holding-creation

Our road trip to California

Jason, Tessa, Malcolm and I took a road trip, spontaneously, last week's night.  Over dinner at the Owl 'N Thistle, someone said, "How far is California?  Could we go there tonight?"  After a day, nay, a week of adventuring, rock-scrambling, poetry, and imagining, this idea didn't strike us as far-fetched at all.  So we struck out on the road in Tessa's sweet ride around 10:30pm that very night.

Malcolm and Jason missed their flights over the pond. I quit my office job by default, and Tessa transferred to each successive Starbucks as we crawled down the coast.  Malcolm didn't stay long, due to his having a family, but he was an enthusiastic participant in his own time, supplying all the poetry and pipe smoke necessary for a heavily atmospheric road trip.  Jason was our road warrior, boldly forging ahead in true rockstar fashion, him being well-acclimated to life on tour.  He fine-tuned our chariot whenever it even so much as hiccupped, and we were mighty relieved to have a mechanic on hand at all times.  Malcolm and Jason busked on the streets to earn our daily bread and evening beer, engaging all the listeners in a rock and roll trip down memory lane.  Tess and I often acted as back-up singers and, when in the proper spirit, dancers and/or street sweepers.  After Malcolm took off, Jason played Spanish guitar and Tessa danced flamenco, while I clapped and stomped vigorously, passing the hat and marking time.  I acted as our group's thermometer for hunger, cold and fatigue, as I was the first to reach each.  Conversely, accustomed as I was to foregoing showers in times of need, I felt completely comfortable in my own skin long past the others' point of sensory endurance.

Tess's official jaunt lasted 6 months, with continual relapses of adventure for the rest of her life.  Jason returned to his life of Eurasian travel, and in the coming years we all joined him on tour when we could.  My favorite tag-along has remained the annual guitar festival in India.  Our road trip stories became the stuff of legend, and were recounted on stages across the world.  On hiatus from travel, we often met up with Malcolm in the Temple of Peace, where we sank into the smoky reverie of rhymed verse, while watching The Green Man, a forest tree of mythic proportions, grow. The Green Man's girth increased every year in a series of concentric rings.  When that tree died, struck by lightning and ascending to heaven in flame, we chopped down what was left of it, made a wardrobe out if it, and counted all the rings buried in the ground.   The stump itself continued to add rings every year, so it grew large enough for us all to sit on and have a picnic.  While we sat, a shoot sprang up from the center, covering our shoulders with its shade.  We remained friends for generations, and visited each others' graves in the proper seasons, while reciting poetry and high-fiving each other in celebration of fully lived life.

Week in review

follow the frolicking hobbit
through the graveyard
to the pub and ferris wheel
arms waving
music spillingpoetry animating
beard, hands, wiry hair
and swiftly widening eyes
scent of pipeweed
invigorating open airways
in space
imagination
memory
future
hope

All Day Sing

I am once-upon-a-timing.  Thoughts are yonderly.  Right now, where I would love to be is at an all-day Sacred Harp Hymn Sing.  I find my arm keeping time right along with the leader in the hollow square.  Full-throated, full-throttle singing.  I love the enthusiastic crescendo before and after lunchtime.  The lunch is, indeed, the peak.  Where, indeed, did all this food come from?  Old ones, young ones.  Remembrance of singers gone on the year before.  Certain anticipation of the singing up yonder. 

I'll take the red eye

Last night after yoga, I felt strong and good.  Firme.  I felt like not going home.  I felt like going for a drive to watch the sun set.  I drove through Silvana, surprisingly into Stanwood, on to Camano, through Camano Island State Park, and then on to Cama Beach State Park, where I arrived in time to watch the red sun hold my level gaze for approximately five minutes before it smoldered into heavy watercolor.  The whole time, the sun looked me straight in the face, steady, without a wink.

Gregory Boyd quotes Anthony De Mello saying, "Behold the One beholding you, and smiling."  Most vividly I recall his account of bedtime storytime, the son reading the dying father to sleep, the father not being able to sleep because he can't take his eyes off his son. 

What happens when water goes out to play

Thunder, rain, lightning, sun.  Rinse, repeat.

What is going on inside is more soulfully significant than what is happening outside.

The earth was feeling the need for a scrubbing, so it sent the rain. Heat lightening built it up to the showering crescendo.  Of course it is more fun to play with toys in the bathtub than it is to simply wash up, so some strobe lighting effect was added, and the thunder kept time.  In the end, it was more like a shower dance party.  For one.  And all. 

Arise, therefore

Come alive, it's summertime
shake out your most solemn dreams
from the swaddling bedsheets
in the fairy light, the dancing grass

don't freeze in the winter--retreat
curl in toes and ferny fronds
make your plans close and warm
sleep ripe dreams into being

in the morning we will rise
and sing and soar

Sailor's Sabbath

Once upon a time, I met a sailor.  He had a red beard.  He had a pipe.  He had a ponytail.  He had a boat.  He had a hat.  He had everything he needed to be a successful sailor, and then some.  The only thing he did not have was a peg leg, that is, a leg made out of peg.  Is peg more like corkboard or wood?  Wood, probably.  What does it matter?  Dude's not even missing a leg.

One Friday evening, I supped on a sailor's boat.  We sat inside with the hatch open and watched the gloaming come on.  He sang in Hebrew.  He read in English.  We two guests hummed along and slaughtered pronunciation while observing sacred rhythm and melody.  The dinner table as altar.  The bread as sacrifice.  Sabbath-keeping as Lady Wisdom, laughing at the future, never lacking in good things.  One who espouses Wisdom is honored at the city gate.  Wisdom's children arising and calling her blessed.  An invitation to the angels.  An invitation to the neighbors.  Enter in.  Breathe in.  Receive the holy spirit. 

Alaska

Today I drove to lunch in a logging truck.  Have you ever driven a logging truck?  Well, for one, they are kind of like semis, just with logs on the back.  The "walls" are made of wood, and they are from the woods, and they are the trees.  I drove and drove and drove--in Alaska--over hills--down narrow roads--made tight wide turns--revved the engine--hit the air brakes--slurped soda from a huge gas station slam dunk size plastic cup--rolled the windows down--dog by my side--a couple of kids in the cab--my husband crawling around on the logs--listening to public radio--smelling the sap--reaching the cabin--frying the fish--popping  the berries in our mouths--reading the lunchtime stories--chasing the goats--watering the garden--spraying off muddy feet--sipping the coffee--drinking the milk--sitting on the porch--telling the evening story--walking down to the creek--hauling up the water--hanging up the dress--talking down the sun--

The Magic Place

"It is good to have work.  If you master it, this work could be your oyster.  Build your life from the ground up."

"You are a poet.  No wonder this winter nearly killed your soul.  Work where it doesn't feel like work."

Which voice or combination of these voices do you prefer to listen to, reader? 

And what does your own say?

Voice, what do you say?  Let me hear it.  Sweet and lovely, catch the foxes.

Adventures in Doing Nothing

This weekend I planned no plans, but lived more fully than most planned weekends.  I went to an outdoor concert and watched a woman do interpretive dance the entire time, while my friends hula-hooped.  I slept by the sound and heard the bells at night.  I visited a friend's new boat, and boat tenants.  I ate breakfasts fit for kings or farmers.  I smelled gardens in bloom and fruit.  I sat enraptured in conversation until the wee hours of the morning.  I felt joy and lived well.  What did you do this weekend, O Reader?

I dreamed a strange dream twice in one night: once ended in the state of California (which had seceded from the United States, or the rest of the US had fallen into the sea), once behind a pile of garbage.  No California jokes, now.  It's overrated, yes; I've been hearing that for years.  Does that diminish my desire to soak it in?  You tell me, Reader.  Does it for you?

The Park

Once, a very, very short time ago, we went to the park.  It was, in fact, this morning.  I was not at work.  I was not typing.  I was not sitting at a desk.  No, I was at the park.  With you. 

You were there like you always are, eyes wide and ready to play.  What is your favorite piece of playground equipment?  The swingset?  The merry-go-round?  The wooden swinging bridge?  The climbing spider web?  The precarious teeter-totter?  My suspicion is, you love them each for what they are.

As it was an early, gray morning, there were few other children at the park.  There was, in fact, only one mother strollering her now-sleeping baby along the walkway; two small dogs walking at the end of two retractable leashes held by one large man with a beard and eyeglasses; and four birds, four feet apart, all in earnest conversation with one another regarding, I assume, the following: the size, shape and color of their breakfast, the variant colors of the summer sunrise, the probability of rain (100%), and the hatching dates of the neighborhood eggs.  They were the liveliest bunch of them all, except for you.  You sat lithely, listening to their tunes (don't you wish we could talk as prettily as they do?) while trying to touch the tips of their trees with your toes.  And I think you did.

Birthdays

Another friend of mine, BD, is having a birthday today.  Do birthdays bring out the best writing in me?  Do they bring out the best in everyone?  I sure hope so.  Birthdays remind us of the best in everyone, and so we make plans to celebrate the best.  Let's make this a birthday-best madlibs.  You can fill in your own nouns and verbs and the rest.

Dear (your name):

(Adjective) birthday!  I am so (adjective-emotion) to know you.  I remember when we first met.  It was my (number +st/rd/th/etc) year in (noun) school.  You learned my name, but told me I looked like a (girl's name), not a Laura.  One year, on my birthday, my sister left me with you at the (ethnicity) festival in Portland.  We watched the (adjective) dancers, tasted delicious (type of ethnic food), and listened to a speaker discuss (adjective) art and icons.  It was (adjective)! 

It turns out that all the time, my sister had been planning a surprise (noun) for me!  Well, as you remember, I felt very (adjective) and was so (noun-feeling) that all of my friends had come to (verb) me for my birthday.  It was the best (noun) ever!

Today is your (noun) and I hope that you feel at least as (noun-feeling) as I did on that day.  I wish you (adjective) food, enthusiastic (plural noun), and so much (whatever). 

(ing-verb) (of) you today!

Two Shoe

Once upon a time, I bought a new pair of boots.  I saw them nestled in a corner looking so forlorn.  I am sure they brightened up at the sight of me.  I saw no other pair.  We locked eyes.  They were tall, grey, and lucky.  I tried to find someone who would lawfully let me have them, but the seller was buying lunch from a nearby vendor.  I set the boots aside on a chair and perused other booths, from the northwest 1/4 quarter of the indoor area around the loop, and back to the point of origin next to the scarf seller.  Money exchanged hands, and they were mine to have and to hold.  The seller gave me an apologetic look and mentioned the worn-down heels.  I didn't waiver but proudly walked on with my stunning new-old boots hanging by their convenient loops from my right hand.  At the dress and leather shop down the street, a friendly sales clerk gave me free advice-- Don't wear those boots until you have had the heels fixed.  You will not be able to wear them at all if they are not properly taken care of.  She was full of goodwill and wishes for me and my boots.  I smiled at her and thanked her, so happy to know how to take care of what was now mine.  Fortunately, there is a cobbler down the street, around the corner and four blocks from where I work!  Oh, happy grey boot day to you all!

What is your favorite pair of shoes?  What do they look like? What do they smell like?  Where did you first discover them ?  How do they make you feel when you wear them?  Could they change your luck on a cloudy day?  Who is the first person you saw when you tried them on?  Where did you go on your first outing together?  How long have they been part of your life?

What a difference a shoe makes.  What a joy to have a pair.

trains? busses? ferries? cars?

Moral of the story: It's fine to have no plans (sometimes), but well-executed exit strategies are essential.  And friends are more essential. 

I'm tired.  You may write today's story yourself.  Winners will be awarded an imaginary golden pen of awesome.

Here are your  prompts: Stomach issues, Seattle is magic, Tourism via Chevro-legs, Missed the buss/train home by hours, Roommate intervention, Owl 'N Thistle, Fremont Sunday Market, Washington Ferry System, Nacho Yoga, Friends: old and new.

Border Patrol

It's lunchtime again, and I have a story.  Wait for it... it's on its way.

Once I took a ferry to Canada.  Canada is an exciting place, let me tell you.  Mostly because you need a passport or an enhanced driver's license to get in and out of there in a dignified fashion.  (Dignified means not with a police escort.)  So you must understand how important I felt carrying around proof of being US-American.  The border patrol officers were polite even when I missed the entrance to the passport check, which was located in a tiny white prefab building.  (Prefab means cheap and moveable.)  I did this because I saw a group of officers sitting right outside of the office.  Officers always look official even when taking a break, so naturally I assumed they would play a crucial role in getting me to the True North Strong and Free.  Well, it turns out they did.  As I walked over to them, passport-ready, one lounging gentleman officer said, "Could you do me a favor?"  I wondered in my heart what manner of greeting this could be.  Trying not to look nervous, I said, "Yes."  "Go up the ramp into the building."  "Ok."  Smile.  "Thanks."

And that is how I nearly missed Canada by two feet.  A narrow scrape, and quite worth writing home about.  If you, reader, are ever in such a place of foreign adventuring, wondering at the strange greetings of mild-mannered officers, please remember to be polite and smile and not be too embarrassed when they redirect you.  It happens to... well... me.

A Birthday Story of Sorts

It was my friend Amanda's birthday over the weekend.  She is a very old and dear friend; old, not in the aged sense, but in terms of duration.  I will write her a small story for her day that goes a little something like this:

Once upon a time or two ago, two travelers rendezvoused in an undisclosed location.  You see, they were friends.  Friends who enjoyed both the in-of-doors and the out-of-doors.  On this particular time, they chose an out-of-door location that was filled with trees, which is the material out of which some persons choose to construct doors.  The friends walked among the trees.  They admired the trees.  They picked the leaves from trees to hang on their refrigerators.  Leaves were chosen based on the following criteria (criterion?): vibrancy of color, size, symmetry.  They had a picnic, during which they held races for their leaves.  Note: Leaf races take several months to complete, seeing as the track is merely the distance from branch to ground.  Watching an entire leaf race is very tedious and time consuming, and I would not recommend it for those who are mobile.  However, Leaf Race Viewing is a  very enjoyable past-time when taken in small doses of an hour or two, especially when and where the climate is favorable and one has a serviceable lawn blanket and pair of rockin' shades.  [If you do find yourself in a leaf race area, be advised: betting on leaf races is very chancy and is generally discouraged.]  When the friends left, the two leaves were neck-and-neck, and as no spectators were present when they fell, we have assumed a tie. 

Side note to make this more birthday-like: If you were a leaf on a tree, I would not pluck you from the branch.  Leaves only enjoy a long, healthy life of leafhood when attached to the tree from whence they sprung.  Yea, verily, I would leaf you on the tree.  But, before passing by, I would comment on your perfect color, size and symmetry, and maybe snap a picture of the two of us together, because time spent with beautiful leaves is always too short.  I would come and see you again, and perhaps you would fly over and visit me on vacations.

Inasmuch as you are less like a leaf than you are a friend and fellow-traveller, I wish you, this summer, a very happy summer and fall of leaf-watching and various other restful and rejuvenating activities.  Also, I wish we could go outside and have a birthday picnic together.  The end.

The Zoophagus

Once upon our time, we went to the farm.  What was your favorite animal?  Did it have fur?  Feathers?  Was it fond of fish?  Draw a picture of how it looked.  Please write below it what it did or did not say or do.

My favorite animal was the zoophagus.  Close relative of Snuffelupagus, according to my research.  Also has distant relations in the giraffe clan, as evidenced by the long neck.  The neck is, indeed, as long as the nose.  You remember how they look, don't you?  Perhaps you should draw a picture, now, so you don't forget.  Many have, and so I write to remind you.  I waved enthusiastically at the youngest in the herd, who was in fact the tallest.  Unlike other farm animals and other live things, zoophagusses (they hate the pretentiousness of the proper 'zoophagi') shrink over time.  She winked back at me, her feathery eyelashes waving in the breeze.

Draw a picture, if you will, of your favorite animal and my favorite animal.  Are they friends?  Are they shy?  Do they play well together or poorly?  Which one is better at sharing?  What kind of food do they BOTH enjoy?  (If you cannot think of a common favorite food, please consider chocolate cake.)

If you find your animals are having a conflict, such as perhaps one animal liking chocolate cake so much that it eats the other's share, please consider baking a second cake and reminding the offending animal that it is good to ask politely for seconds after everyone has had their own piece of chocolate cake, fed to them on china plates or banana leaves, whichever is most easily accessible.

Introduction to the Copywright Fairy

This blog is protected by the Copywright Fairy.  Fairies have a long and complicated history with copywright law, as they do with all other kinds of law related to the proper eating of chocolate cake and other surprisingly legal matters.  Please avoid even a hint of copywright infringement lest you run afoul of their grinding and finicky judicial process.  If you don't believe in fairies, then perhaps you believe in The Law.  I work at a Law Office.  Don't push your luck, Reader.