More Ebb Than Flow

Writing has an ebb and a flow--some mysterious force that hinders or motivates the mind and fingers to produce, or not. The date of my last post is an indication of which cycle I've been in. Suddenly though, mulling over in my mind the events of the past year on this New Year's Eve, something sparked, so here I am again.

To my best friend, wherever you are, I wish for you a change in luck and fortune in the new year. You have suffered so much these past two-plus years, and it is my hope that it all turns around for you in 2005. And, though I haven't talked to you in over a year, I am confident you will contact me again and we can continue our story.

Odd how much it hurts when a friend moves away and
leaves behind only silence.
-P. Brown

Model Hopping Again

I love to tour model homes in the places I visit. It's fascinating to see the different types of architecture, decor, landscaping and layout of each house as compared to the type of housing common in my home state. Every time I do this, I try to picture myself living in the particular place I'm visiting and adapting to the region's climate and lifestyle. Some places fit very well; others are truly unappealing. Over the years, I've probably toured models in 38 states and have some real favorites. Those favorites have become the homes of characters in several of my writing projects.

I'm currently visiting in Denver, and most all the model homes here have two stories and a basement, and are situated on very small lots. And all with a price that's at least 30 percent higher than a comparable place in my home state of Arizona! Arizona homes are invariably one story ranchers with no basement and set on good-sized lots. The Denver-style homes are not particularly unique; I've seen this same style--both in new homes and older homes--throughout the midwest. However, there are some really charming older homes with a lot of character and with even higher price tags, but again without much land and no view.

Stairclimbing, up or down, is not for me, and with no view to speak of unless one wants to spend upwards of a million dollars, newer Denver homes will not go on my list of favorites. No character of mine will spend time looking longingly out a Denver window, hoping for a glimpse of the Front Range, only to see the next-door neighbor's very close wall.

On second thought, maybe I will place a character in such a setting and see where it will lead. Perhaps all that stair-climbing will build up a character's glutes, which will then be noticed by the very close next-door neighbor, and a relationship will begin that leads to the best story yet!

Mafia Marathon

I've neglected my writing for weeks now. Writing ended up as the also-ran when making a decision whether to write or watch all four seasons of The Soprano's on DVD. I've never been a big TV fan and never felt a need to subscribe to HBO. By chance I saw an episode of The Soprano's while visiting someone, and I immediately became hooked. Once I rented the first season, I couldn't wait to finish each episode, sometimes staying up until 3 a.m. to finish a disc. What a fantastic series. Such excellent writing and acting! When the show's characters draw in a person so much that one empathizes with murderers and hoodlums and is relieved when Tony Soprano gets off the hook for a murder he committed, it adds up to great stuff. After four more episodes, I'll be through--hungry for the release of Season Five on DVD. I'm almost tempted to get HBO, but then I'd have to quit reading and writing completely.

: :beH:un:g4Girls ... : :PE:RF:EC:TR:EJ:UV:ENA:TI:ON:4ANY:MA:N...

What the hell is it with these spammers? The above is the subject line of one of the 100-plus spam emails I received today. Is this to avoid spam filters or just the result of poor schooling or plain stupidity? If it is the latter, then these people should be caged. To hell with the first amendment and all the other arguments given to defend the rights of those who make a living by sending out this crap. I am not interested in penile enhancements, cheap prescription drugs, low mortgage rates, email spy systems, hot teen sex or fat mature sex. I don't want to learn about the Spanish lottery, or how to make money by spamming, or septic problem solutions. Leave me alone! I wish there was a method to direct the spam back to the spammers by 100-fold! Now that's a software program that I'd be interested in! Clog up their computer to gridlock their 5 cents-an-email get rich quick job.

Once Kerry gets elected and we're all drinking free Bubble Up and eating rainbow stew, maybe the spammers will be able to get a better job and won't have to spam for a living. Of course it won't be with a big corporation because we all know they are evil and should be run out of business--but maybe some kind of really challenging, rewarding position with the government. Then, the spammers can join the middle class (currently known as the "rich" by the Kerry machine) and pay exorbitant taxes to fund even more government programs to ensure that everyone has the same opportunities, regardless of ability, work ethic, citizenship, or any of those other annoying requirements that are usually associated with getting ahead.

Testing Your Political Compass

Many folks declare themselves as either liberal or conservative without really knowing just where they really stand. An interesting and insightful site offers a test to show your true leanings, as well as the many political contradictions that occur when taking a side. You may be surprised!

Common Knowledge

Why is it that so few people seem to know the simplest things about the town, or even the neighborhood in which they live? I've traveled to many places, and it is rare to find even one person who can tell me the town's approximate population, the name of a native tree or flower, the elevation, weather patterns, or even the name of a river that runs through the town.  One would think this kind of information would be common knowledge to those living there.
 
One shopkeeper couldn’t understand why I wanted to know such trivial stuff, and said no one he knew really cared about that kind of thing, that there were far more important things to think about, that I was the only person who had ever asked for that information, and that maybe I should just go buy a book.  I left his shop empty handed, both in knowledge and goods.
 
I did run into a taxi driver once that was a veritable storehouse of data about the area I was visiting.  He answered every question in detail, proudly volunteered fascinating details and did it with the aplomb of a tour guide describing his domain.  He received a very large tip. 

Mile High, Missing My Favorites...

In order to escape the heat of the desert floor, I've traveled to Colorado to stay awhile in a cooler mise en scène. Unfortunately, I have not found relief. The temperature in this mile-high city is sweltering, and being closer to the sun, it seems much hotter. My skin burns. The nights, however, are quite comfortable, and that fact may convince me that my 900-mile trek was worth the grueling drive.

If only I had brought my Favorites. I'm lost without those URL's. I've tried in vain to find some of my favorite blogs and other frequently visited sites. I feel deprived without my daily visits. It's disconcerting how attached one gets to the cyber world. Perhaps this void will force me to search for new sites, new blogs and fresh experiences.

Tempus Fugit

Instead of getting out and celebrating the July 4th holiday in some interesting way, I chose to stay in and do research for an upcoming writing project. As I waded through 35 years of papers, newsletters and other data related to my former workplace, I came across many names and situations that had not crossed my mind in years. I was genuinely surprised at all the people and situations that I had completely forgotten about. As I looked at photos and news articles, I fondly remembered my friends and acquaintances as they had been so many years ago. We were all young and strong and had fire in our bellies and we were going to make a difference. We were going to change the world, or at least our workplace. Some did, and some just plugged along. Others lost their way and found themselves sometime later down the road, others never did. And some died. As I sorted through those remnants of the past, I was reminded of a poem written by Ogden Nash:

The Middle
When I remember by-gone days,
I think how evening follows morn.
So many I loved were not yet dead
So many I love were not yet born.

A Curmudgeon In The Making

My recent trip to a conference in New Orleans confirmed beyond a doubt that I have joined the ranks of curmudgeonry. Over the years, I have gradually progressed from an overall annoyance with people, to frustration, then exasperation, and now--overt grumpiness and an intolerance of fools. I don't know if my condition is the result of advancing age, unrealistic expectations or some deeper psychological issue, but people in general have really started to piss me off. Actually, they always have, but in the past I may have been more tolerant because life's long road was ahead of me. Now with it mostly in my rear view mirror, I just do not have the time or patience to put up with basic human stupidity.

It started at the airport. How many air trips does it take for someone to figure out what not to take on a plane? At the screening station, why not just dump your pockets, take off your shoes, jewelry, wrist watch, or anything that might set off the alarm; have a clue what's in your luggage and efficiently move along. Having to stand in a long line is frustrating enough, but when an idiot is causing the hold-up, it is infuriating. One woman, after three tries, finally got all the metal off her person. She made it through, but her carry-on bag didn't. The screeners ran the bag through twice, called over a supervisor, removed her bag to the search area and found a cutlery set! She said she thought it was OK because it was gift-wrapped. Give me a break! At that point, she looked around to see if she had an audience, giggled, and went into a Jessica Simpson stupidity routine. I guess she expected that those of us behind her would get a kick out of her dilemma and her attempt at self-deprecating humor. Wrong! A Jessica Simpson emulation by a fifty-year-old is not at all cute or endearing! All I could hope for was that she was not on my flight.

Then, try getting off the plane filled with a few more idiots. Unloading can go smoothly if people would just wait until those in rows in front of them exit, and then take their turn. But, there are always those who have to push their way up the aisle, blocking the way for those in the row ready to exit. They'll come from the back of the plane, pushing people standing in the aisle and disrupting the whole exit process. Disembarking could be so simple if it wasn't for those few lame brains. After all their efforts to get off the plane, they then take their sweet time walking to the gate area, stopping to adjust their clothing and luggage and getting in everyone's way, totally oblivious to the world around them. It would be fun to bring them back to back to reality with a good slap!

More idiot situations at the hotel...the restaurants...even the conference. It was as if it was an "Idiots' Holiday" out there. I couldn't wait to get back home and crawl back into my hermit's hole. Although this rant could go on for thousands of words, I'm going to stop. It causes too much cortisol and adrenaline to course through my veins. At my age, stress hormones are not a good thing. Sure wish thinking about a few good men would work the same way and get some sex hormones pumping again. Now that would be a good thing!

The Wonder of a Mid-Day Waltz

As I worked through my usual weight training routine at our local community college fitness center, I decided to finish up with a little cardio work on the treadmill. The treadmill I use faces a common area leading to other parts of the campus, and it is entertaining to watch folks going about their business beyond the fitness center windows. Time flies when there is something of interest to focus on other than the endless drone of the treadmill motor. As I trudged along, two people came into view, and I witnessed something that, in one small moment, lifted my mood for the rest of the day.

They were a thirty-something man and woman, walking toward one another from opposite directions, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly they looked up, walked quickly to each other and embraced. Then, in an easy and effortless movement, they began a graceful dance, almost a waltz, on the walkway. It was 11 o’clock in the morning, already 100 degrees outside, and there they were, dancing without music in the heat of the bright mid-day sun. It only lasted a minute. Then, they touched each other’s face, parted, and continued on their separate ways. As they retreated away from each other, both were gracefully swinging their arms wide, bring their hands together in a slow motion clap with each step. I saw the expression on the woman’s face as she walked past the window. It was one of exhilaration. I was sure that the man, who had gone the other way, had the same look on his face.

I am normally not a fan of public displays of affection, but this short encounter was just so charming that it made me wonder about the couple and their relationship. They seemed so easy with each other, and their movements were so similar; they must have been more than just casual friends or coworkers. Perhaps lovers? Or spouses? Or, dear old friends that had not seen each other for years? But then, why would they walk away after such a short time together and with so little conversation? I continued to contemplate this while finishing my routine, and suddenly I had an aching feeling of wistfulness, remembering times long gone and the so very few who had been able to lighten my step and make me smile with something as small as a chance encounter on an ordinary day.

Bridge Burning Complete!

This past year I have tried to unclutter my life, not only physically, but also mentally and emotionally. I've gotten rid of tons of clutter, downsized my wardrobe, simplified the household paperwork, and hired out undesirable tasks. I've read many books on simplification and organization and now I think I have most of the clutter under control. Almost. Living in this society is in itself clutter producing. It's hard to get rid of it all, and I wouldn't want to. Now I choose what to simplify so that I can clutter up something else that holds more interest.

My position, before I retired, put me in a place where I had to conceive, implement and integrate human resources policies. I had to deal with negative people, negative situations and negative results for much of my career. Having that type of job did not make me a candidate for Miss Popularity around the workplace, especially with those folks who believed that HR's main function was to carry the watermelons to the company picnic, or to plan touchy-feely team building events. Eventually I completely burned out. After years of dealing with so many of those odious types, I chose to clear my head of all that negativity and just quietly fade into the sunset, taking with me a whole career’s worth of awards and mementos that I have since thrown out.

With the decision to leave the workforce I was able, for the first time in many years, to choose whom I wanted to associate with, whom I wanted contact with, and whom I did not. I deleted many people from my "Contacts," blocked folks from "Instant Messenger," and quit seeing the people who got on my nerves. I also stopped keeping up with casual acquaintances and no longer attended their weddings, showers, and parties, (or even their funerals as the case might be) as I had been obligated to do while I was working. Suddenly I was free! No more keeping up appearances for the sake of my position. It has been a tremendous relief. I am free to sit down at the computer and write bullshit all day without a care. I had some qualms at first, wondering if I would be sorry later as I deleted people out of my life. I wondered if I had "thinned the woods" too much. But my fears have been unfounded and I've thoroughly enjoyed my equinimity. Dorothy Parker, one of my favorite writers, wrote this poem many years ago. It captures my carrent state of mind perfectly. Thanks, Dorothy!

Sanctuary

My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.

Hot Town, Summer in a Desert City

Summer in Central Arizona is brutal. Temperatures run over 100-plus degrees for about five months, usually beginning in mid-May and continuing until mid-October. Some days, like today, top 105 degrees with the promise of even hotter days to come. Walking outside has the feel of a blast furnace opened in your face. You can actually feel your skin burn as the sun hits it, made worse by no humidity in the air. Rare is the day with clouds in the sky, and rarer still are clouds that are more than thin haze. Vegetation has a parched, scorched look that makes you long for the verdancy of other climes. As each year passes, I have less tolerance for the inexorable heat. Even as a native of the state, I find the summers wretched and draining. It seems that youth is an insulator and a deflector of heat, and as one grows older, the insulation grows thin. My insulation has worn very thin.

The “dry heat” period will end soon. Monsoon season begins around July 1, and announces itself by a rise in humidity levels. It’s like jumping from the frying pan into the fire, save for the possibility of a thunderstorm. We are in our ninth year of drought here, so the storms are rare. Because they are so rare, thunderstorms, in all their glory, are the only thing to look forward to in the heat of July, August and September. There is nothing quite as beautiful as the huge, dark thunderheads forming on the horizon in the late afternoon, building their mushroom tops as they move closer and closer, holding the promise of rain. Most of the time we get only sheets of heat lightning or a dust storm, but when the rains come, it is glorious! The air cools by double digits and the pungent smell of creosote bush drifts in from the deserts. The next day is especially miserable because of the increased humidity brought on by the rains, but if the thunderstorm was a spectacular one, complete with crashing thunder, giant lightning bolts and torrents of rain, it is almost worth suffering through the next day.

It seems that those who move here feel compelled to say the heat doesn’t bother them; that they love being outdoors in the scorching sun, and have gladly traded the snow they left for the desert heat. I can understand that trade-off. The remarkable thing is that I’ve met few transplants who seem to appreciate the thunderstorms or the smell of the desert after a rain in the same way that a native does. Perhaps thunderstorms and rain were plentiful back in the home state and don’t hold the same fascination as for those who hail from here. But not appreciate the clean, slightly tarry smell of the creosotes and wet desert earth after a rainstorm? Now that is hard to fathom!

Letter from a Friend

On my birthday, I received a letter from a friend who lives in in the Pacific Northwest. We had known each other, visited and shared deep thoughts for three short years in our early twenties in Southwestern Arizona, and our connection was stronger than usual for such a short acquaintance. Over the years, we wrote sporadically, and I saw her once in the mid-seventies. Then, as both of us lived our lives, discarded names and got new ones, we lost touch. I tried to locate her to no avail. She stayed on my mind during those years, and just when I believed I was losing my mental acuity from advancing age, I pulled up from the depths of my memory the name of her sister and her sister's husband. Remembering the name was a wonder, as I had never met the sister and had minimal conversations about her with my friend. A quick search of the Internet produced a seeming telephone match, and though I doubted its authenticity because of the location, I took a chance and called. Unbelievably, I had located the right person. My friend's sister! She mentioned that she had just gotten married after a widowhood of 16 years and was in the process of moving, and her phone was due to be disconnected the next day. She had never bothered to change the directory listing. She promised to give my friend my telephone number and email address, and within days, I got a call. I still marvel at the timing and luck involved in locating her. We have since visited and continue to keep in touch in the same sporadic manner as before, but both of us are thankful for our reconnection.
My friend told me in her letter that her sister had died a few months earlier. I felt sad—and thankful--that her sister had played such an integral part in my finding my long lost friend.

Chicken Pablono, Smoked

Today I had lunch with a friend. We were kicking around ideas for a writing project and had a lot to discuss, so after our meal of Chicken Pablono (which, by the way, was excellent) we moved our conversation to the lounge area to make room for those waiting for tables. Soon, the cigarette smell drifting from the nearby bar began to bother me even though I am a former tobacco chimney myself. In my heyday, I smoked 80 cigarettes a day. I'm a stereotypical ex-smoker. You know the type--those self-righteous “I quit, so why can’t you” jerks who whine about how bothersome cigarette smoke is to them. I cough, become hoarse and congested and wind up with a headache. Perhaps it's psychosomatic, but the symptoms are real.

Having quit some 24 years ago, it is hard to understand how people can begin, or choose to continue, to smoke in light of the overwhelming evidence of its health dangers that are so widely known today. I doubt that I've gotten off scott free. I'm sure I'll eventually pay a health price for all my former puffing.

I could have moved from the lounge, but I didn’t. My problem. So, this afternoon I came home, threw my clothes in the washer, jumped in the shower, washed my hair and thanked my stars that I am no longer burdened with the smelly, nasty, deadly habit.

They puff, with
Blackened bellows
Resentful, defensive
Waiting for a challenge
To their stupidity.

Comic Book Wisdom

At eight or nine years old, I loved comic books, especially those of the Tales from the Crypt genre. They were 10 cents each and had colorful, scary artwork, as well as gory, weird stories that seemed to suggest some moralistic truth. One story that I found particularly disturbing concerned a man with a nagging, unkempt wife. He wished she were someone who better fit the feminine ideal of the early 1950's, and after an unusually bad day with her, he reached the end of his rope, retreated to his basement, and began to plan how he was going to rectify the situation. His solution: Construct a robot and use his wife's skin to make an improved version of her. When he finished, the robot had ragged stitches where he had sown her together. (He must have been a terrible surgeon/seamstress, or maybe the artist felt exaggeration was necessary for the gory effect!) Once the deed was done, he lived happily ever after. She brought his slippers, lit his pipe and was always smiling. Men have such simple needs. Something about the tale pissed me off, even at that tender age. It seemed the moral of the story was that all women should know their place, keep their mouths shut, be nice and stay pretty, or something bad would happen.

Some 20 years later in 1972, Ira Levin wrote the story, The Stepford Wives. When I saw the movie version of his book in 1975, it struck me that the movie had many similarities to the comic book story as I remembered it. We were at height of the feminist movement in 1975, so the movie's premise angered many women, just as I had been pissed 25 years before. But, in 1975, I was older and wiser. I realized that men really wouldn't want to improve their wives. Why get an improved model of the same old wife, when getting a brand new one was so easy?

I wondered in 1975 if Levin had written the book based on that old comic book saga. Levin would have been 21 years old when the comic book was printed. Perhaps a little old for reading comic books, but then, I don't know much about Levin. I suppose he could have written the comic book story and developed it into the book later. His books seem to have that macabre quality of the old Tales from the Crypt comics.

A few days ago, I saw the latest movie version of The Stepford Wives. This version had a sense of humor. A few one-liners were quite funny. The movie didn't piss me off at all this time around. Perhaps I've mellowed over the last few decades from age and experience. Over the years I, myself, have traded in a few old models for new, (albeit without resorting to robotics or gore) so perhaps that has contributed to the attitude adjustment. I see the advantages.

Sure wish I could find that comic book again. It would be a hoot to see if my memory of that comic book story has any resemblance to reality. I don't remember the issue number, and I'm not willing to pay a collector $100 an issue to see if I'm right. I'll just remember it as I remember it, until someone proves me wrong on their dime. Anyway, it's kind of fun to think that Ira Levin may have gotten his start as a Crypt Keeper!

Idling In Neutral

The Present Hour
One of the illusions of life is that the present hour is not the critical, decisive hour. Write it on your heart that every day is the best day of the year. He only is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day who allows it to be invaded with worry, fret and anxiety. Finish every day, and be done with it. You have done what you could.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today was a day that just was. No ups, no downs, just a lazy summer day, too hot to move much, too tired to write much, too bored to think much. At a certain point in life, one feels somewhat guilty at wasting a day, because the line of days to come is ever shorter. In the past, this day would have qualified in my mind as a wasted one. Then I remember Emerson's viewpoint, and I embrace the ennui, and tell myself that I did what I could.

Lessons Learned From a Gopher Catcher

As a young girl, I discovered Nancy Drew mysteries at the school library, and admired Nancy’s detective skills and feistiness so much that I was determined to match her sleuthing proficiency. My first case, (self-appointed) was to prove that one-armed Fletcher, the blustery, prevaricating town drunk, was swindling my farmer father. Dad hired him to catch gophers at the going rate of a quarter a gopher and Fletch showed up randomly every couple of weeks to do the job. It bothered me that he was getting that much money, as I had to work hard cleaning a big barn and the milking equipment to get a quarter. Gopher catching seemed much easier. Just set the traps, place them in a gopher hole and wait.

Fletcher, an amputee well known in our small farming community, stumbled around town with a cheap pint of whiskey in his back pocket, ranting and telling tales to any passersby. I think most towns probably have a few Fletcher types; at least that’s what I’ve observed over the years. However, in those days in my town, he was an annoying anomaly. He had a dark complexion, hair and eyes, partly dirt and partly coloring. Because of Fletch’s reputation as a liar, when someone was suspected of mendacity, the other party would declare derisively with a thumb tucked in armpit, “Go ahead and tell another one, Fletch!”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Fletch arrived with his gopher traps. With my best Nancy Drew moves, I followed him to the alfalfa fields, keeping myself hidden from view. Fletch threw down the traps, made himself comfortable under a cottonwood tree and began to swig from his bottle. Shortly, he appeared to be asleep, so I ran back to his old car and looked in the trunk. It was filled with stinky and swollen dead gophers still in traps, probably from an earlier catching job. I did my chores and after a couple of hours, I saw Fletch stumbling to his car with ten empty traps. I quickly hid near his car so that I could watch him undetected. Just as I suspected, he threw the empty traps in the trunk and pulled out the dead gophers. My dad was pitching hay not far away, and when he saw that Fletch was finished for the day, he came over and handed him $2.50. I scurried out from my hiding place as Fletch pulled away, and told my dad that Fletch had ripped him off, describing what I had seen. Nancy Drew would have been proud of me, but my dad was unimpressed. He just said, “Oh, I know he brings those gophers with him, but he needs the money so I just play along.” So much for my sleuthing skills!

One may think that I learned some valuable lessons in understanding, forgiveness and compassion that day. Not a chance! I learned some lessons all right: I’ve never given a dime to a drunken indolent, I have no tolerance for liars, and I detest easy marks. Moreover, I’ve stayed away from PI work as my chosen career.

D. B. Cooper, Parachuter Nonpareil

Today while driving to a seminar about a local Type A" Life Care facility (not that I'm ready for such a set-up but I believe in preplanning, and they offered a free lunch!) out of the blue I thought of D. B. Cooper, that guy who jumped out of an airliner in 1971 with the $200K ransom he had collected. He became quite a cult hero. Many hoped he had gotten away with his crime--probably because it was such an impossible, daring act. People even wore tee shirts with slogans about D. B. and his boldness. I don't think I had one of those shirts. My tastes at the time ran more toward slogans like "Dracula Sucks," but I too thought D. B. was a cool dude.
D. B. appeared to be middle-aged in 1971, so if he actually made it out of the Washington woods, he'd probably be in his 80s now. Maybe he invested his ransom proceeds well and now lives in a Type A Life Care facility--playing Bridge and telling paratrooper tales and of survival in the wilderness, all of which the facility staff attributes to advanced senility. Go D. B.!

Alien Veggie Experiment

Grocery shopping is not something I normally do, but today I accompanied my spouse, a master grocery shopper, to pick up a few things. While at the vegetable display, I spotted some strange looking vegetable matter. It was hard trying to determine which store descriptions matched the actual vegetable, but eventually I found that the most disgusting veggie in the group was kohlrabi. Shaped like a turnip, it has pale limbs growing out of its middle. These limbs then became leaves at the top. It looks almost alien. Since I've always considered myself well versed in most food matters, (God knows enough of it has crossed my lips) I was ashamed to admit I didn't know kohlrabi from Napa cabbage or rutabaga from parsnips. I do love veggies, but today was a revelation--I've actually lead a safe veggie life until now. Suddenly I was struck with the idea to buy and prepare a new vegetable each week until I had run through the total display. Really live it up! When I got home, I located a book that had been around the house for years, and decided that kohlrabi would be the veggie of the week for us. I started out with the ugliest one first--that way, we'll be more likely to stick with this plan as the prettiness quotient goes up. Kohlrabi supposedly has a taste that is a cross between a radish and a cucumber, which really doesn't sound bad at all. Now we're all excited with the idea of having a dish of "Braised Kohlrabi with Tarragon" this weekend. The recipe calls for fresh tarragon. Now where in the hell will I find that?

Anonymous Anonym Anonomizer

There's something about the anonimity of the Internet that makes it easy to post thoughts, opinions, poetry and just plain crap. Technology is a marvel for mental health--that is, if you have a strong spam filter!

Fashion Sense

Trying on a life not lived,
even the ugly parts.
Would we have survived
those trials, those betrayals?
Would we have transcended,
wiggled into each other
spoon fashion,
forgiving our humanness?
We both laugh and say yes.
I try that on for size.

The Stirring

My soul on wings
Streaking silver
Through the night.
Down forgotten paths,
And back again
To new avenues
Looking for
A resting place.
A restless search,
An endless search,
Again, a fruitless flight.

~1965~