- jimlouis 5-23-2007 5:19 am [link]
...more recent posts
Country Time
A woman was pushing a stroller across the pasture so she could show the baby the horses up close. A man across the road was walking down to the pond carrying two fishing poles in his right hand. A neighbor to the left was having a party and the overflow parking was up to the fence. Soft jazz music and polite laughter could be heard. Down the hill some, next to the partying neighbor another group played horseshoes and the fisherman heard someone say in a congratulatory tone something about a "leaner."
A red winged blackbird did battle with a crow and then hovered awkwardly over the fisherman's head.
The woman with the baby said, "see the horsey?"
A small mouth bass felt the vibration of a splash and then saw a pink swirling motion, which it mistook for food and sucked into its mouth. Above the gills and right below his left eye the bass became aware of a hard tugging motion and he swam in the direction of the tug.
There was laughter over the jazz music and laughter over the clanging of horseshoes and the baby across the road in the horse pasture said "hama's." The mother said, "horsey."
Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else a gun was fired. The fish leapt from the pond and did a swiveling somersault in the air. When it landed back in the water there was no more tugging from the left side. The fisherman said, "shit."
Next to the horseshoe match people in chairs facing west were waiting for a majestic sunset that never did quite happen.
A light breeze blew and floating algae along the banks of the pond moved out into the center to form small islands.
People on a porch moved inside.
A truck came down the road and hesitated briefly, before moving on.
The fisherman casted out and landed the pink and brown plastic worm on top of a floating wad of algae. Reeling in he discovered not just the tug of algae but that of a fish. It seemed to be swimming toward him as he reeled it in. At the last minute it made a sudden desperate fighting maneuver but not enough of one before the fisherman had it flapping its gills on the grassy bank. The fish was hooked clean on the bottom lip. Before releasing it the fisherman noticed that the fish had a hole in it just below the left eye.
At the afternoon jazz party the first guest had to leave.
Glancing across the road the fisherman saw no sign of the woman with the stroller.
A cat hunted mice in the tall grass.
A woman was pushing a stroller across the pasture so she could show the baby the horses up close. A man across the road was walking down to the pond carrying two fishing poles in his right hand. A neighbor to the left was having a party and the overflow parking was up to the fence. Soft jazz music and polite laughter could be heard. Down the hill some, next to the partying neighbor another group played horseshoes and the fisherman heard someone say in a congratulatory tone something about a "leaner."
A red winged blackbird did battle with a crow and then hovered awkwardly over the fisherman's head.
The woman with the baby said, "see the horsey?"
A small mouth bass felt the vibration of a splash and then saw a pink swirling motion, which it mistook for food and sucked into its mouth. Above the gills and right below his left eye the bass became aware of a hard tugging motion and he swam in the direction of the tug.
There was laughter over the jazz music and laughter over the clanging of horseshoes and the baby across the road in the horse pasture said "hama's." The mother said, "horsey."
Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else a gun was fired. The fish leapt from the pond and did a swiveling somersault in the air. When it landed back in the water there was no more tugging from the left side. The fisherman said, "shit."
Next to the horseshoe match people in chairs facing west were waiting for a majestic sunset that never did quite happen.
A light breeze blew and floating algae along the banks of the pond moved out into the center to form small islands.
People on a porch moved inside.
A truck came down the road and hesitated briefly, before moving on.
The fisherman casted out and landed the pink and brown plastic worm on top of a floating wad of algae. Reeling in he discovered not just the tug of algae but that of a fish. It seemed to be swimming toward him as he reeled it in. At the last minute it made a sudden desperate fighting maneuver but not enough of one before the fisherman had it flapping its gills on the grassy bank. The fish was hooked clean on the bottom lip. Before releasing it the fisherman noticed that the fish had a hole in it just below the left eye.
At the afternoon jazz party the first guest had to leave.
Glancing across the road the fisherman saw no sign of the woman with the stroller.
A cat hunted mice in the tall grass.
A Short History Of The 14th Century
I had an itch in the center of my back. Couldn't reach it. Am not that flexible. Should have used the wooden fork over on the counter but the steak knife was right in front of me so I used it as a back scratcher instead and I think you can see where this is going. No you can't. Nothing happened and I won't require stitches. Actually, with a Zen-like surgical precision I believe I dislodged something. Later in bed I felt that something crawling on my chest and I looked down my shirt and saw a blood-engorged tick lolly-gagging along one of my rib bones. Grabbing it with thumb and forefinger I placed it gently on the bedside table and set it on fire. Although clearly not impervious to intense heat they are not really that flammable, blood-engorged ticks, and it now sits still, still on my bedside table, dead as a doornail, which is an expression without certifiable meaning, dating back to the 14th century.
I had an itch in the center of my back. Couldn't reach it. Am not that flexible. Should have used the wooden fork over on the counter but the steak knife was right in front of me so I used it as a back scratcher instead and I think you can see where this is going. No you can't. Nothing happened and I won't require stitches. Actually, with a Zen-like surgical precision I believe I dislodged something. Later in bed I felt that something crawling on my chest and I looked down my shirt and saw a blood-engorged tick lolly-gagging along one of my rib bones. Grabbing it with thumb and forefinger I placed it gently on the bedside table and set it on fire. Although clearly not impervious to intense heat they are not really that flammable, blood-engorged ticks, and it now sits still, still on my bedside table, dead as a doornail, which is an expression without certifiable meaning, dating back to the 14th century.
The Dysfunction Of Little Walter's Mouse
I was telling Bernadette about a little accident I almost had this morning. It was a thing I won't tell you, to save you from embarrassment. It was a thing that in the telling of to Bernadette suggests that there are some steps on the road to intimacy one might be better stepping around.
There are times when circumstances allow only that you remain mute or if prodded to speak be crude.
All our tales are not pretty ones. There is limited time budgeted for your life as a superhero. We cannot always be free from mundane worries and unpredictable body functions. Find a day when you look in the mirror and looking back is not a total loser, and take a picture. Put the picture in an album and believe that the album represents a locked reality. Believe this as long as you can.
Medicate if there is no alternative.
She said tell me again why it is you must go in person to pay the cable bill?
At this point in time I have a single goal and that goal is one sentence.
All the other words are blocks supporting the one sentence trophy.
She only pretends to be jealous to make me feel better about my own jealousy.
You going down there to see that cable lady?
I wrote back the first couple of lines to Me and Mrs. Jones but replaced Jones with counter- person.
I waited for her to make out the two receipts and listened to her discuss with her co-worker the problems with Little Walter's mouse and that's all there is to this.
I was telling Bernadette about a little accident I almost had this morning. It was a thing I won't tell you, to save you from embarrassment. It was a thing that in the telling of to Bernadette suggests that there are some steps on the road to intimacy one might be better stepping around.
There are times when circumstances allow only that you remain mute or if prodded to speak be crude.
All our tales are not pretty ones. There is limited time budgeted for your life as a superhero. We cannot always be free from mundane worries and unpredictable body functions. Find a day when you look in the mirror and looking back is not a total loser, and take a picture. Put the picture in an album and believe that the album represents a locked reality. Believe this as long as you can.
Medicate if there is no alternative.
She said tell me again why it is you must go in person to pay the cable bill?
At this point in time I have a single goal and that goal is one sentence.
All the other words are blocks supporting the one sentence trophy.
She only pretends to be jealous to make me feel better about my own jealousy.
You going down there to see that cable lady?
I wrote back the first couple of lines to Me and Mrs. Jones but replaced Jones with counter- person.
I waited for her to make out the two receipts and listened to her discuss with her co-worker the problems with Little Walter's mouse and that's all there is to this.
Conrad Jones And The King Of Prussia
Everyone says he has Alzheimers. That's the first thing a person will say if you mention his name. Oh yeah, Jones, has Alzheimers. Sanders has a bump on his dick. Anderson has a boil on his ass. Crenshaw has a uni-brow.
I do not really know him that well to compare what he was like before people started describing him as an Alzheimer victim. He acts in a way that to me could only be described as marginally odd, and exhibits behaviour that could just as easily be described as folksy. There are certain criteria to meet in order to be a bona-fide Alzheimer sufferer. If you don't meet them your behaviour is then described by a non proper noun like dementia. Bob has dementia, Rick's demented, Sandra is deranged.
I heard recently the positing of an interesting concept--that the world of imagination is not that place to which one escapes when life presents challenges but rather the psyches ultimate destination. The place you are meant to be. Not a way-station or a tool or a means to an end but that very thing which the seeking and cultivation of perhaps answers the question, why are you here? So if someone ever says to you in response to something you are feeling strongly about--that you are imagining things, you say, I certainly hope so, even though the saying of that will possibly convey exactly the opposite of what you mean.
Guests were packing up on Monday. Sparkle came in after a trip to the car and said to me that Conrad Jones was in the driveway and wanted to talk to me. She seemed moderately disturbed, saying Jones was asking her things that she had no answers to and at one point said to her that he needed a friend. That's when she said she would go get me. Sparkle's husband, Jesse, says she is a dementia magnet, attracting odd types where ever she goes. I thought she was kidding that Jones was in the driveway. I didn't really get the joke though. I wanted to play along but I wasn't sure how to act. What is my character's motivation? I wanted to ask the director but there did not appear to be one. It was then that I realized, by reading the crease in Sparkle's brow, Conrad Jones, who had never before stopped by for a visit, was now visiting.
He introduced himself and I said who I was, even though we have met a couple of times before. He was concerned about something that each time I tried to make him specify what that thing was he would retreat back into the folksy good neighbor character who was just stopping by for a visit. I'm not sure he was clear as to my role up here and so I contemplated making one up for the occasion. Nice to meet you Conrad, I am Dave, the King of Prussia, and I have come here to claim this hill for my mother country and make of you locals, adoring subjects.
He said I have a good head on my shoulder or he may have said I seem to have a good head on my shoulder and the latter of those two I believe to be the more accurate.
From here, you can't really hear the traffic on the nearby state highway, except like now, when there is what sounds to be four hundred motorcyclists passing through on their way to the Shenandoah Park.
It is not so much that the motorcyclists are noisy as it is that the quiet you previously took for granted becomes, after they pass, something new.
Everyone says he has Alzheimers. That's the first thing a person will say if you mention his name. Oh yeah, Jones, has Alzheimers. Sanders has a bump on his dick. Anderson has a boil on his ass. Crenshaw has a uni-brow.
I do not really know him that well to compare what he was like before people started describing him as an Alzheimer victim. He acts in a way that to me could only be described as marginally odd, and exhibits behaviour that could just as easily be described as folksy. There are certain criteria to meet in order to be a bona-fide Alzheimer sufferer. If you don't meet them your behaviour is then described by a non proper noun like dementia. Bob has dementia, Rick's demented, Sandra is deranged.
I heard recently the positing of an interesting concept--that the world of imagination is not that place to which one escapes when life presents challenges but rather the psyches ultimate destination. The place you are meant to be. Not a way-station or a tool or a means to an end but that very thing which the seeking and cultivation of perhaps answers the question, why are you here? So if someone ever says to you in response to something you are feeling strongly about--that you are imagining things, you say, I certainly hope so, even though the saying of that will possibly convey exactly the opposite of what you mean.
Guests were packing up on Monday. Sparkle came in after a trip to the car and said to me that Conrad Jones was in the driveway and wanted to talk to me. She seemed moderately disturbed, saying Jones was asking her things that she had no answers to and at one point said to her that he needed a friend. That's when she said she would go get me. Sparkle's husband, Jesse, says she is a dementia magnet, attracting odd types where ever she goes. I thought she was kidding that Jones was in the driveway. I didn't really get the joke though. I wanted to play along but I wasn't sure how to act. What is my character's motivation? I wanted to ask the director but there did not appear to be one. It was then that I realized, by reading the crease in Sparkle's brow, Conrad Jones, who had never before stopped by for a visit, was now visiting.
He introduced himself and I said who I was, even though we have met a couple of times before. He was concerned about something that each time I tried to make him specify what that thing was he would retreat back into the folksy good neighbor character who was just stopping by for a visit. I'm not sure he was clear as to my role up here and so I contemplated making one up for the occasion. Nice to meet you Conrad, I am Dave, the King of Prussia, and I have come here to claim this hill for my mother country and make of you locals, adoring subjects.
He said I have a good head on my shoulder or he may have said I seem to have a good head on my shoulder and the latter of those two I believe to be the more accurate.
From here, you can't really hear the traffic on the nearby state highway, except like now, when there is what sounds to be four hundred motorcyclists passing through on their way to the Shenandoah Park.
It is not so much that the motorcyclists are noisy as it is that the quiet you previously took for granted becomes, after they pass, something new.
Me, And A Bear In The Woods
Three of us were parked in the middle of Skyline Drive to look at a black bear mama worry over her cub up in a tree. A man from Maine passing by from the opposite direction made sure to let us know that a female with her cub will rip your guts out if you get too close, but as all of us were seconds away from the protection of our vehicles I found the advice to be not all that warranted under these specific circumstances. I was more concerned about being rear ended so I looked behind me to see two gown wrapped Buddhist monks in a rented Chevy also taking pictures. The one Buddhist monk flung a frisbee-like biscuit between the mother and baby, with a precision so precise that I was made to wonder is playing frisbee with bears a part of some Buddhist ritual of which I am unaware. I am not one to give advice to monks so I did not say do not feed the bears. I just smiled at the younger monk and got back in the Jeep and drove home. I had passed an adolescent bear walking along the rock wall guard rail just moments earlier but did not stop because I did not want to be one of those tourists I scoff at who stop in the middle of the road when there is a deer alongside it. Oh-My-Gawd, a deer, I will say while passing the gawking motorists on the two lane winding mountain road, to return home in time to see a half dozen deer munching on the newly planted landscaping, marmots in trees, foxes in marmot holes, geese on the pond, an occasional bald eagle in the sky, and cats thought dead on my back porch. American Black Bears, while fairly common throughout large swaths of this country, are not something you see that often, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to be stuck in the mini traffic jam with camera handy.
I had been on a hike to research fishing holes and was now driving back and only minutes away from popping the top on the Guinness full strength in a bottle which I was carrying in my small pack, along with the camera and some cashews and some paper towels for the emergency cleanup which may be necessary if you go far out into the woods after a week of dosing on coarsely ground psyllium.
Three of us were parked in the middle of Skyline Drive to look at a black bear mama worry over her cub up in a tree. A man from Maine passing by from the opposite direction made sure to let us know that a female with her cub will rip your guts out if you get too close, but as all of us were seconds away from the protection of our vehicles I found the advice to be not all that warranted under these specific circumstances. I was more concerned about being rear ended so I looked behind me to see two gown wrapped Buddhist monks in a rented Chevy also taking pictures. The one Buddhist monk flung a frisbee-like biscuit between the mother and baby, with a precision so precise that I was made to wonder is playing frisbee with bears a part of some Buddhist ritual of which I am unaware. I am not one to give advice to monks so I did not say do not feed the bears. I just smiled at the younger monk and got back in the Jeep and drove home. I had passed an adolescent bear walking along the rock wall guard rail just moments earlier but did not stop because I did not want to be one of those tourists I scoff at who stop in the middle of the road when there is a deer alongside it. Oh-My-Gawd, a deer, I will say while passing the gawking motorists on the two lane winding mountain road, to return home in time to see a half dozen deer munching on the newly planted landscaping, marmots in trees, foxes in marmot holes, geese on the pond, an occasional bald eagle in the sky, and cats thought dead on my back porch. American Black Bears, while fairly common throughout large swaths of this country, are not something you see that often, and so I was glad to have the opportunity to be stuck in the mini traffic jam with camera handy.
I had been on a hike to research fishing holes and was now driving back and only minutes away from popping the top on the Guinness full strength in a bottle which I was carrying in my small pack, along with the camera and some cashews and some paper towels for the emergency cleanup which may be necessary if you go far out into the woods after a week of dosing on coarsely ground psyllium.
I Thought You Were Dead
I do not know a damn iota about magical forces but let me tell you something--there are two full moons in this month of May, the one today, and another one on the 31st, and there is something powerful going on with that, I'm not the only one seeing ghosts pretending to be dreams, men roaming about houses, more curious than malevolent, and when I two days ago spoke to a couple of cats down the road about coming by for a visit I certainly did not think any cats would come by for a visit, especially a dead one.
You know I mentioned awhile back about my shamefully serious intention of kidnaping an area feline. I called the kitty LaDainian and the owners apparently called him Fuzzy. As it turned out Fuzzy belonged to a prominent local and that got Fuzzy a mention in the local paper, first as missing and then the next week as an apparent roadkill. Since that day when I read about the demise of Fuzzy it has been a lonely cat-less existence up here on the hill. Until I called from the road to those two cats up in a town yard, from a distance of a hundred feet or more, and said come on by sometime. I told them where to come. One of the cats looked like he was actually listening to me, and turning his head a quarter to the side and slightly up, I could swear he was making a mental note of my directions.
Yesterday I was right here trying out this new Netflix feature of free streaming movies, trying to get through the horror of the Japanese film, Imprint, and a cat, I don't think it was the one I was talking to up in town, came striding up the driveway. It looked like LaDainian. There could be perhaps a Feline Communications Network and it may be that a flash bulletin was put out to the effect--lonely, crusty caretaker on nice property, skilled in the art of cat but hesitant to pursue ownership, no experience necessary, alive preferred, but not necessary.
I went out and called to LaDainian. He stopped, meowed. I said, I thought you were dead. He said, not necessarily. I said, well come over here and let me get a look at you. He strolled over to and under the Jeep and sniffed the oil pan, with serious intent. You don't have to play that cat thing with me, just come over here a minute. He meowed, and headed off towards the backyard. I crossed through the breezeway and sat on the floor, framed by the screened doorway, and waited. For him to explore the bushes. And do his I'm ignoring the birds even if they can't ignore me routine. Then he came over to me and I petted him. He remembered me from his past life but seemed uncertain of how that could be. He was fresh. A fresh, new, late model LaDainian. He did some poses. The--I'm hiding in the bushes pose, the--stalking past the barbecue grill pose, the--I know you/who are you? /I'm just damn cute pose, and the--I own this patio/who are you? pose. I took pictures.
I do not know a damn iota about magical forces but let me tell you something--there are two full moons in this month of May, the one today, and another one on the 31st, and there is something powerful going on with that, I'm not the only one seeing ghosts pretending to be dreams, men roaming about houses, more curious than malevolent, and when I two days ago spoke to a couple of cats down the road about coming by for a visit I certainly did not think any cats would come by for a visit, especially a dead one.
You know I mentioned awhile back about my shamefully serious intention of kidnaping an area feline. I called the kitty LaDainian and the owners apparently called him Fuzzy. As it turned out Fuzzy belonged to a prominent local and that got Fuzzy a mention in the local paper, first as missing and then the next week as an apparent roadkill. Since that day when I read about the demise of Fuzzy it has been a lonely cat-less existence up here on the hill. Until I called from the road to those two cats up in a town yard, from a distance of a hundred feet or more, and said come on by sometime. I told them where to come. One of the cats looked like he was actually listening to me, and turning his head a quarter to the side and slightly up, I could swear he was making a mental note of my directions.
Yesterday I was right here trying out this new Netflix feature of free streaming movies, trying to get through the horror of the Japanese film, Imprint, and a cat, I don't think it was the one I was talking to up in town, came striding up the driveway. It looked like LaDainian. There could be perhaps a Feline Communications Network and it may be that a flash bulletin was put out to the effect--lonely, crusty caretaker on nice property, skilled in the art of cat but hesitant to pursue ownership, no experience necessary, alive preferred, but not necessary.
I went out and called to LaDainian. He stopped, meowed. I said, I thought you were dead. He said, not necessarily. I said, well come over here and let me get a look at you. He strolled over to and under the Jeep and sniffed the oil pan, with serious intent. You don't have to play that cat thing with me, just come over here a minute. He meowed, and headed off towards the backyard. I crossed through the breezeway and sat on the floor, framed by the screened doorway, and waited. For him to explore the bushes. And do his I'm ignoring the birds even if they can't ignore me routine. Then he came over to me and I petted him. He remembered me from his past life but seemed uncertain of how that could be. He was fresh. A fresh, new, late model LaDainian. He did some poses. The--I'm hiding in the bushes pose, the--stalking past the barbecue grill pose, the--I know you/who are you? /I'm just damn cute pose, and the--I own this patio/who are you? pose. I took pictures.
