Lop sau is a left-handed, overhand sweeping block against any right-hand attack...
There isn't enough ethyl alcohol, amber lager, manna, maple syrup, fissionable fuel...
...To power THIS engine. (Phuk!) (I was calling my butler, he's Vietnamese - so give me a break.)
I don't like running on low-energy fuels... like vegan food, clarinet solos, persistent bad luck at roulette, Aries chicks, 9-volt batteries, curried potatoes, fresh-water eels...
"Sorry, bio-diesel, you're a wuss - and you know it. You've heard it before me. You have a good personality, really. It's ME, not you. Yes, you're cute, but... Have a great life, though..."
Give me love and energy and release. Smiles. (Isn't that a Hindu god? Mah'sturb'ithra? Something like that... they've got everything already figured out in India, and there's a god for it. Seriously. Like Kali, the Bowler of Destruction. Hello? Have you seen the drawings? Hmm?)
If you don't like alcohol, you probably aren't over 18 yrs old, so please look for Disney programming elsewhere.
Good, they're gone.
Press this button. (Blogspot people, put a button HERE. Okay, HERE. Thanks, man. That check's in the mail, really. I thought I sent it out already, and you won't return my calls... Have you out-sourced the service department? Sas'rikal?)
Pink-clad princesses? Tutus? Prancing, spinning? Who are you kidding? That ersatz age ended 300 years ago. I remember all that shit, at least 250 years back, so don't pretend it hasn't already happened, because - yo, I was there.
Not that I don't love swords, but...
Good luck with that, pink-dinks! 'Pink' has never won a war. Ever. Pink doesn't win wars, and Everyone Knows That. Purple thought it would win once, after the French, but... pfhhht, they know now. Blue and green, baby. B&G FTW! Nature wins in the end. So many mushroom clouds in our planet's past, so many to go... But I regress.
Ton sau is a right-handed, strong circular sweep to clear...
Tonic KNOWS it. (I always underrated them. Like cheap beer, angel hair pasta, powdered saffron, lipstick lesbians... )
"If you could only see the way she loves me,
Maybe you would understand,
Why I feel this way about our love,
And what I must do..."
(I only like the first 33+ seconds of that song, not for the lyrics, but because of the acoustic guitar, so, the open-tuned chord changes... fuckin' delicious. Ethereal. Transcendental. (Do they give you nitrous for that? In the studio?))
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY -
(But WE are watching YOU if YOU read This, Hackers.)
At one point in my life, I knew when and where the US Dept. of Defense would go 'pretty orange.' (In the late 80's, that was something. (Like porno on beta.) NATO-Secret in that day, but - practically - useless information now. However, still rattling around my noggin, and back then they made me wear a .45 caliber to NOT talk... Aigghhhh.
Damn, quit twisting my arm, Pink! It was in the Michaelsrombach bowl, but before the Queck Bridge, westward-looking. If those Communist fucks got a heavy bridging unit to that piss-ant bridge... Ouch.)
Pastelly, permanent colors. Everlasting melty-metal neons. A rich splay of delicious, deathly beauty. Sinistre. You wouldn't want to see it, unless you were on 'E' or LSD or something equally palette-able. "It's pronounced 'Noo-kyoo-luhr.'" I always wanted to see just one, a faraway fission mushroom cloud, a localized devastaticon.
So pretty. Low-energy fuel. Fission.
Pak sau is a left-handed, slap-down control of the others' elbows. Better to aim it right, tie them up a bit.
But my testosterone diverges from the topic... (but, shit - explosions! They're soooo cool if you aren't IN them. The flash/shock wave is sublime, all-encompassing, unavoidable. Overpowering. Tasty. The closer, the better, right?)
I've been trained to be jaded. Indirectly. Women do that. Indirectly. No, wait, they do it directly.
You know you're out there - begin a glacier! - rubbing slowly against the world. Plowing over the terrain. Grinding - some would say, 'sanding.' Doesn't lessen it. Rubbing away at the pith and marrow.
Some of us will remember, that's our informal job. Don't pretend you're fusion.
I'll know the difference.
Keep waitin' for that cheun choi. Rabbit punches. I know I'll be waiting. Fusion waits forever, or until the fuel's expended.
The physicists have proven that. What can stop it? Not pink.
And what'll be on The Other Side?
I'm bettin' on blue and green. Fusion loves those two.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wisdom Teeth
Some would say I know a few things. Skills and magic. I'd respond, modestly, that 'I was thoroughly trained.' Especially at driving. I used to love driving.
Ich liebe Alles.
Tom Petty's "It's Good To Be King" fades into such a beautiful ensemble, drifts off, explores tonal realms... somewhere around the 4 minute mark. I rewind it a lot. On the road, even more so.
Leaves skitter across windy, cozily empty rural roads. Forgotten corn rots, no one cares, listens as we pass. Songbirds do their 'bird' things, tucking in for the night. Soon, I am in awe, jogging into the woods. Two Labs as lieutenants. Wet and cool and dark as the sun sets in the southwest. Inviting, in a Goth way. An owl moves silently under the canopy of spruce and fir, twisting between the trunks, air-lurking, wings splaying and contorting to make the turns. The rain tastes fresh dripping from the cedars, mildly reminiscent of rust, or perhaps salt from the Sound only a mile off to the west. Booted feet find familiar berms, the trail goes faster, and leaner. Remembered.
Then I woke up again. Fich.
Despite polling numbers, I must uncomfortably steer into a tirade... a type of crimson squall. (That'll stain the sails, I know.)
Think five years back or so...
An odd feeling crept through me - and I'm sure YOU felt the same way - as President W. the Shrub rubbed the German Chancellor's shoulders uncomfortably in the endless TV replays...
"It rubs the lotion on its skin..."
(Angela Merkel felt it. Bet on it. He HAS an underground bunker already! Frickin' Cheney's got some sort of Ring of Unindictability. Isn't anyone paying attention? The emperor has no smooth moves! Profound doubt ensued. And I already had issues with them after NYC.)
(Nein, nicht an der WTC.) (That's what She said. Ba doom pish.)
I know that I loved Germany when I was there. Clean. Autobahns. Castles. Rib-stickin' food. Beer. Frauleins. Hair gel. Trains on time. You can pee anywhere! An' Reagan watchin' our backs... How could anything be wrong? AND - Convenient enemy across the border, well-defined and evilish, practically junior varsity. The USSR/Warsaw Pact played that part so well for young idealistic US boys like myself... I KNEW I was good, so those guys MUST be bad. They were on the Other Side, right? (We were all like Luke and Hans in those days. Lukes and Hanses? Wait. Lukes and Hansens? Hansen und Luken? Fich!)
Oh, the 80's were a spectacle to behold in Europe. I can't paint a pseudo-rosy-enough picture of that time. We all knew it could come crashing down, so we enjoyed what oppurtunity we had. Time and Purpose found meaning there, and we got paid for it! We wore uniforms, but we thought 'ambassadors at 180 km/p/h...' (Our official fates were something along the lines of 'die in place here in your tank, defending Europe,' but that was good enough for us.)
Imminent nuclear conflict makes for fantastic parties. Everybody should have them. Do the neon/shaved head theme! Crack some glow-sticks!
I know I miss certain doom. It provides focus. A man on a tightrope is remarkably in tune, I'll warrant. Speaking of that...
"...Sometimes you wear 'L'air du Temps,' but not today."
I know I don't like those new blue-toned headlights. My retinas care even less for them. Oh yeah, they've been around for a few years now. These new ones are the color of 'ego.' They practically spell "a-s-s-h-o-l-e' with nothing but a blinding roar of paired 'Willy Loman' beams.
I almost wish they were always on Audis, because I somehow have a hugely negative reaction to them, as well. I see them in my rear-view mirror quite a bit, perpetrating nonsense. Less than foot off my chrome. Dichs. Arsehohle. (Add your own umlauts.)
Who buys a German car that's as cheap as you can get? Pretenders, that's who. (OhhOoh, you've got a fine European sports car! Nice tires? Orange dashboard lights, so cool... Quit tailgating me, hang up the phone, and wake the hell up! Drop the sandwich, honey. We're driving here!) (Do this and I won't call you in as a suspected drunk/drug addict. Deal?)
Germany. Renowned for its engineering and manufacturing talents. (Soooo precise. I'd love to see a German CSI show. "Ze man schpewed, und dann vee caught hims sex seconds later-hosen.") And masterfully political... oooch. (Only one war away from world domination, eh, Schatzen?)
I know I don't like people trying to make left turns in the city. They're holding up the whole world because they can't route-plan. Accidents happen, pedestrians get smished, all because people can't do their own direction-finding anymore. Three rights is less dangerous than one left. I'll bet the Germans have a saying for that Truth.
The German language has often been called the 'language of war.' I'm not even gonna look that up, I've heard it so often. But I didn't learn enough of it to feel that way. It was a way to get ice cream, pork, chocolate, 'Lucky Strikes.' Streiken mit Lucken? Fich!
I know I love clean water, golden light, beer, and cooked pigs. So I'll never have a problem with the Germans.
Plus we shared that 'doom thing' for a while.
Come to think of it, I may even have a medal that says that. Eine Cookenpiggenbeerenmedal.
"You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?"
Oh, you bet.
But not today.
Ich liebe Alles.
Tom Petty's "It's Good To Be King" fades into such a beautiful ensemble, drifts off, explores tonal realms... somewhere around the 4 minute mark. I rewind it a lot. On the road, even more so.
Leaves skitter across windy, cozily empty rural roads. Forgotten corn rots, no one cares, listens as we pass. Songbirds do their 'bird' things, tucking in for the night. Soon, I am in awe, jogging into the woods. Two Labs as lieutenants. Wet and cool and dark as the sun sets in the southwest. Inviting, in a Goth way. An owl moves silently under the canopy of spruce and fir, twisting between the trunks, air-lurking, wings splaying and contorting to make the turns. The rain tastes fresh dripping from the cedars, mildly reminiscent of rust, or perhaps salt from the Sound only a mile off to the west. Booted feet find familiar berms, the trail goes faster, and leaner. Remembered.
Then I woke up again. Fich.
Despite polling numbers, I must uncomfortably steer into a tirade... a type of crimson squall. (That'll stain the sails, I know.)
Think five years back or so...
An odd feeling crept through me - and I'm sure YOU felt the same way - as President W. the Shrub rubbed the German Chancellor's shoulders uncomfortably in the endless TV replays...
"It rubs the lotion on its skin..."
(Angela Merkel felt it. Bet on it. He HAS an underground bunker already! Frickin' Cheney's got some sort of Ring of Unindictability. Isn't anyone paying attention? The emperor has no smooth moves! Profound doubt ensued. And I already had issues with them after NYC.)
(Nein, nicht an der WTC.) (That's what She said. Ba doom pish.)
I know that I loved Germany when I was there. Clean. Autobahns. Castles. Rib-stickin' food. Beer. Frauleins. Hair gel. Trains on time. You can pee anywhere! An' Reagan watchin' our backs... How could anything be wrong? AND - Convenient enemy across the border, well-defined and evilish, practically junior varsity. The USSR/Warsaw Pact played that part so well for young idealistic US boys like myself... I KNEW I was good, so those guys MUST be bad. They were on the Other Side, right? (We were all like Luke and Hans in those days. Lukes and Hanses? Wait. Lukes and Hansens? Hansen und Luken? Fich!)
Oh, the 80's were a spectacle to behold in Europe. I can't paint a pseudo-rosy-enough picture of that time. We all knew it could come crashing down, so we enjoyed what oppurtunity we had. Time and Purpose found meaning there, and we got paid for it! We wore uniforms, but we thought 'ambassadors at 180 km/p/h...' (Our official fates were something along the lines of 'die in place here in your tank, defending Europe,' but that was good enough for us.)
Imminent nuclear conflict makes for fantastic parties. Everybody should have them. Do the neon/shaved head theme! Crack some glow-sticks!
I know I miss certain doom. It provides focus. A man on a tightrope is remarkably in tune, I'll warrant. Speaking of that...
"...Sometimes you wear 'L'air du Temps,' but not today."
I know I don't like those new blue-toned headlights. My retinas care even less for them. Oh yeah, they've been around for a few years now. These new ones are the color of 'ego.' They practically spell "a-s-s-h-o-l-e' with nothing but a blinding roar of paired 'Willy Loman' beams.
I almost wish they were always on Audis, because I somehow have a hugely negative reaction to them, as well. I see them in my rear-view mirror quite a bit, perpetrating nonsense. Less than foot off my chrome. Dichs. Arsehohle. (Add your own umlauts.)
Who buys a German car that's as cheap as you can get? Pretenders, that's who. (OhhOoh, you've got a fine European sports car! Nice tires? Orange dashboard lights, so cool... Quit tailgating me, hang up the phone, and wake the hell up! Drop the sandwich, honey. We're driving here!) (Do this and I won't call you in as a suspected drunk/drug addict. Deal?)
Germany. Renowned for its engineering and manufacturing talents. (Soooo precise. I'd love to see a German CSI show. "Ze man schpewed, und dann vee caught hims sex seconds later-hosen.") And masterfully political... oooch. (Only one war away from world domination, eh, Schatzen?)
I know I don't like people trying to make left turns in the city. They're holding up the whole world because they can't route-plan. Accidents happen, pedestrians get smished, all because people can't do their own direction-finding anymore. Three rights is less dangerous than one left. I'll bet the Germans have a saying for that Truth.
The German language has often been called the 'language of war.' I'm not even gonna look that up, I've heard it so often. But I didn't learn enough of it to feel that way. It was a way to get ice cream, pork, chocolate, 'Lucky Strikes.' Streiken mit Lucken? Fich!
I know I love clean water, golden light, beer, and cooked pigs. So I'll never have a problem with the Germans.
Plus we shared that 'doom thing' for a while.
Come to think of it, I may even have a medal that says that. Eine Cookenpiggenbeerenmedal.
"You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?"
Oh, you bet.
But not today.
Monday, January 24, 2011
On A Dis-chordantly Different Note...
Let's talk about streetlights. Regular city orangish street lights. Seemingly BORING. Ok, not seemingly. They know more than they tell. And they only have a brutish, simple language - not even to the level of grunts and clicks of Neanderthals. Just 'on,' or - as a contrast, off.
"Big Kahuna Burger? I ain't heard of them."
I don't know about you, but I put them out ahead of me. (Not consciously. That'd be Jedi-crazy.)
It just happens. 'Plink.'
They go out. Sometimes two, three at a time - like they were waiting for a particular reason - dying out in rapid succession, with nary a flicker, they're out. In a row, it actually looks cool on a quiet side street, the schmeary orange glow on the leaves of the myriad trees, replaced by moonlight, or just caressings of decreasing darkness... The dogs never seem to mind, as their noses tell them more than their eyes. The fixed entities don't care... (Unfeeling bastards.)
Streetlights. They freakin' go out. Been seeing it for almost twenty years.
Not ALL of them. Only a few. Some. A bushelful. Mere smidgens of the whole. (Could they track me this way?) (They?)
But it is consistent, and that is what worries me. Or, more to the point, CONCERNS me.
Because - WHY? How? Explain?
Why would lights go out ahead of me, what did I do, why do I notice them endlessly? Don't I wash my hands often enough? Am I exuding some sort of 'hot' electromagnetic flavor that miraculously turns the streetlights off? I'm not THAT hot. Ok, I AM. But I brood.
These are hard-wired street lights, set to come on at a certain 'lack' and go off when the 'want' is satiated, like a rising sun breathing into a new day. They don't have any opinions - or - do they?
Something must be aberrant. (The hair on my neck used to stand up, but I man-scape that scritchy stuff these days, so there's nothing to reveal that involuntary response... better living through razors.)
"May I have a drink of your tasty beverage with which to wash this down?"
I spend a lot of time walking the dogs when I'm home, and a good deal of that is at night, so I guess I'm in the 'right' place at the right time. Is that enough? These things have independent sensors that determine light and dark, or whatever their on/off function calls itself. If it's dark, they come on. If I come by, running the night, they may or may not go out. It's like a cheesy 80's rock song.
"I put out street lights
Walkin' down the way
They just go out, Baby
No matter what you say..."
They seem to go out more often if I'm angry. When I walk my hound dog - he's a coonhound mix so he sniffs with complete canine purpose - I find I get peeved about pausing so often to let him consume some aroma that's hovering below my olfactory range. (Dog lilacs.) But - I want to walk, my pace is set, the leashes are a certain length. My arms only stretch SO far. My other dog seems to pace me perfectly, she never stretches me out beyond what I'm ready for.
Then it begins, subtly.
"What does Marcellus Wallace look like?"
Hound dog lingers. LINGERS. My pulse quickens, and I know it. He snorts and snoots his way to China for all I can tell, so if I have a head of steam, it's the last thing I want. Someone's probably watching me, judging. The headphone cord gets tangly. My arms get pulled two directions, my attention wavers, my Ipod skips a song... 'Air Supply?' NO!
The center DOESN'T hold. (Yeats, you dog.)
Then, when my blood curdles up, one'll go out ahead of me. My side of the street. 'Znip.' I see it. It happened. I know it, consciously. Timing is all, right? Why THEN? And we're off...
I pull the dogs, swearing under my breath, exasperated for the zillionth time... Let's keep moving, Hunden.
Then another light. Out. Buhznish. Same side of the street, only a handful of steps beyond the last.
"Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides..."
It's more dramatic if I'm in a vehicle. Looks like it's planned, even. More so if I point it out to the other occupants of said vehicle. It doesn't seem to matter who, no one can cancel it out, so far.
My lady-love didn't believe 'I put out lights' until she had no choice but to believe it. Three or four in a row is fairly convincing. Replacing light bulbs in the house gets tedious.
SO, it is a phenomenon in my life. We make adjustments for this sort of thing. I've basically gotten used to it, it's a bonafide. No one has dampened it yet, so I'll just live with it.
When I googled 'street light interference' I discovered that I'm some sort of 'indigo' and I can levitate and create ice-fire and mow lawns with lasers or something REALLY cool.
SO am I inhabited by spirits or depressed? (Who isn't?) I had an energy drink today, so...
The lights still go out. You could track me by it at times. 'They' know it.
Now, we all do.
Chill. I'm reducing Seattle's power bill.
"Any time of day is the right time for pie."
"Big Kahuna Burger? I ain't heard of them."
I don't know about you, but I put them out ahead of me. (Not consciously. That'd be Jedi-crazy.)
It just happens. 'Plink.'
They go out. Sometimes two, three at a time - like they were waiting for a particular reason - dying out in rapid succession, with nary a flicker, they're out. In a row, it actually looks cool on a quiet side street, the schmeary orange glow on the leaves of the myriad trees, replaced by moonlight, or just caressings of decreasing darkness... The dogs never seem to mind, as their noses tell them more than their eyes. The fixed entities don't care... (Unfeeling bastards.)
Streetlights. They freakin' go out. Been seeing it for almost twenty years.
Not ALL of them. Only a few. Some. A bushelful. Mere smidgens of the whole. (Could they track me this way?) (They?)
But it is consistent, and that is what worries me. Or, more to the point, CONCERNS me.
Because - WHY? How? Explain?
Why would lights go out ahead of me, what did I do, why do I notice them endlessly? Don't I wash my hands often enough? Am I exuding some sort of 'hot' electromagnetic flavor that miraculously turns the streetlights off? I'm not THAT hot. Ok, I AM. But I brood.
These are hard-wired street lights, set to come on at a certain 'lack' and go off when the 'want' is satiated, like a rising sun breathing into a new day. They don't have any opinions - or - do they?
Something must be aberrant. (The hair on my neck used to stand up, but I man-scape that scritchy stuff these days, so there's nothing to reveal that involuntary response... better living through razors.)
"May I have a drink of your tasty beverage with which to wash this down?"
I spend a lot of time walking the dogs when I'm home, and a good deal of that is at night, so I guess I'm in the 'right' place at the right time. Is that enough? These things have independent sensors that determine light and dark, or whatever their on/off function calls itself. If it's dark, they come on. If I come by, running the night, they may or may not go out. It's like a cheesy 80's rock song.
"I put out street lights
Walkin' down the way
They just go out, Baby
No matter what you say..."
They seem to go out more often if I'm angry. When I walk my hound dog - he's a coonhound mix so he sniffs with complete canine purpose - I find I get peeved about pausing so often to let him consume some aroma that's hovering below my olfactory range. (Dog lilacs.) But - I want to walk, my pace is set, the leashes are a certain length. My arms only stretch SO far. My other dog seems to pace me perfectly, she never stretches me out beyond what I'm ready for.
Then it begins, subtly.
"What does Marcellus Wallace look like?"
Hound dog lingers. LINGERS. My pulse quickens, and I know it. He snorts and snoots his way to China for all I can tell, so if I have a head of steam, it's the last thing I want. Someone's probably watching me, judging. The headphone cord gets tangly. My arms get pulled two directions, my attention wavers, my Ipod skips a song... 'Air Supply?' NO!
The center DOESN'T hold. (Yeats, you dog.)
Then, when my blood curdles up, one'll go out ahead of me. My side of the street. 'Znip.' I see it. It happened. I know it, consciously. Timing is all, right? Why THEN? And we're off...
I pull the dogs, swearing under my breath, exasperated for the zillionth time... Let's keep moving, Hunden.
Then another light. Out. Buhznish. Same side of the street, only a handful of steps beyond the last.
"Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides..."
It's more dramatic if I'm in a vehicle. Looks like it's planned, even. More so if I point it out to the other occupants of said vehicle. It doesn't seem to matter who, no one can cancel it out, so far.
My lady-love didn't believe 'I put out lights' until she had no choice but to believe it. Three or four in a row is fairly convincing. Replacing light bulbs in the house gets tedious.
SO, it is a phenomenon in my life. We make adjustments for this sort of thing. I've basically gotten used to it, it's a bonafide. No one has dampened it yet, so I'll just live with it.
When I googled 'street light interference' I discovered that I'm some sort of 'indigo' and I can levitate and create ice-fire and mow lawns with lasers or something REALLY cool.
SO am I inhabited by spirits or depressed? (Who isn't?) I had an energy drink today, so...
The lights still go out. You could track me by it at times. 'They' know it.
Now, we all do.
Chill. I'm reducing Seattle's power bill.
"Any time of day is the right time for pie."
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Schizznit for Beeyotches
Percussion. You gotta love it. Especially the ping-ride details.
I'm listening to 'Rush' on the Ipod right now. Sublime. And I still feel a connection to the place I was when I first heard them. It was 1978.
I was still a kid, in the doldrums of Arlington Heights, WA. Trees. The eastern reaches of the 98223. It was so far from civilization you could still SMELL the 50's.
Letterman's jackets. Initiations. Duck and Cover. Skirts. Rotten leaves.
The world seemed simpler, but was it because I was simpler then? (Now, I'm three instances away from being a masked and /or caped crusader. Another story...)
Arlington was a football town then, and probably still wants to be. In my freshman and senior years we won the State Championship, and I was a strong booster of such domination. (In retrospect, I blame testosterone. I was so hepped up, I would've supported totalitarianism, if that was what was given to me.) I've learned a lot since then.
Rhythms never get easier. Complexity always wins. Chaos finds purchase. We all suffer the outcomes. Platitudes soothe the willing. Idealism bears a false fruit - sweet, tart, yet unfulfilling...
Alas, I've been trying to pay attention to the details. They vex me, those bastards. Sometimes, keeping your eyes open can be nasty. Three nights ago, I saw a dead body blown apart on the southbound lanes of Interstate 5 near Marysville. First, I saw lights on top of the overpass - an ambulance, looked like. I moved into the center lane. Underneath the overpass, a State Trooper turned on his lights, and as I crossed into the left lane, he threw a flare into the right lane. I slowed down to 40 or so. The flare came up to full illumination, and I saw the trooper move alongside the the far side of his car. The overpass seemed like a gate, lit from underneath. A red gate. My eyes drifted back to the road proper.
I didn't want to see what I saw. My mind raced to find a better explanation.
Looked like a deer at first, a multiply-bruised, beaten, bloodied torso, basically devoid of limbs, haunting the center lane.(Human?) Some scattered limbs away in the right lane, (LOOKS human.) Lots of crimson spatter, bits of pink fluff, and then blue jeans, - holding a leg akimbo - all greeted me - I realized it was only attached because it hadn't been thrown off and away by centrifugal forces or direct battery.
I thank some Deity I didn't hit him as well. I felt that he was gone. Violently erased. Reduced.
It WAS a him, I'm pretty sure. I saw him closer than I would have liked to. In some of my memory, I see him with a tattoo on his shoulder, just a few feet outside my truck.
Sha-muthah-frackin-zam! I don't want to live with that as my dominant image this week. Tonight, I made an alfredo with Indonesian shrimp over egg noodles and steamed some broccoli. Lotsa sea salt, that's it. A dash of paprika, oh yeah. A shallot and four cloves of garlic - practically a gastronomic garter belt. Parm, oh, the parm loved the heavy cream. The basil was blushing. I chopped it before it could protest further...
And life goes on...
I'm listening to 'Rush' on the Ipod right now. Sublime. And I still feel a connection to the place I was when I first heard them. It was 1978.
I was still a kid, in the doldrums of Arlington Heights, WA. Trees. The eastern reaches of the 98223. It was so far from civilization you could still SMELL the 50's.
Letterman's jackets. Initiations. Duck and Cover. Skirts. Rotten leaves.
The world seemed simpler, but was it because I was simpler then? (Now, I'm three instances away from being a masked and /or caped crusader. Another story...)
Arlington was a football town then, and probably still wants to be. In my freshman and senior years we won the State Championship, and I was a strong booster of such domination. (In retrospect, I blame testosterone. I was so hepped up, I would've supported totalitarianism, if that was what was given to me.) I've learned a lot since then.
Rhythms never get easier. Complexity always wins. Chaos finds purchase. We all suffer the outcomes. Platitudes soothe the willing. Idealism bears a false fruit - sweet, tart, yet unfulfilling...
Alas, I've been trying to pay attention to the details. They vex me, those bastards. Sometimes, keeping your eyes open can be nasty. Three nights ago, I saw a dead body blown apart on the southbound lanes of Interstate 5 near Marysville. First, I saw lights on top of the overpass - an ambulance, looked like. I moved into the center lane. Underneath the overpass, a State Trooper turned on his lights, and as I crossed into the left lane, he threw a flare into the right lane. I slowed down to 40 or so. The flare came up to full illumination, and I saw the trooper move alongside the the far side of his car. The overpass seemed like a gate, lit from underneath. A red gate. My eyes drifted back to the road proper.
I didn't want to see what I saw. My mind raced to find a better explanation.
Looked like a deer at first, a multiply-bruised, beaten, bloodied torso, basically devoid of limbs, haunting the center lane.(Human?) Some scattered limbs away in the right lane, (LOOKS human.) Lots of crimson spatter, bits of pink fluff, and then blue jeans, - holding a leg akimbo - all greeted me - I realized it was only attached because it hadn't been thrown off and away by centrifugal forces or direct battery.
I thank some Deity I didn't hit him as well. I felt that he was gone. Violently erased. Reduced.
It WAS a him, I'm pretty sure. I saw him closer than I would have liked to. In some of my memory, I see him with a tattoo on his shoulder, just a few feet outside my truck.
Sha-muthah-frackin-zam! I don't want to live with that as my dominant image this week. Tonight, I made an alfredo with Indonesian shrimp over egg noodles and steamed some broccoli. Lotsa sea salt, that's it. A dash of paprika, oh yeah. A shallot and four cloves of garlic - practically a gastronomic garter belt. Parm, oh, the parm loved the heavy cream. The basil was blushing. I chopped it before it could protest further...
And life goes on...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A New Version
...And we're back. It's been awhile.
This current update of the old "Dead 'N' Berryed" is brought to you by the Greek Letter I can't find on this keyboard that represents 'Delta.'
Which implies a change. A transition. Metamorphosis. To some, smoke and mirrors.
I suppose I'm tired of being a residential builder, building things, but only because I'm getting older, and - reluctantly - wiser. The market has completely fallen out on new construction. The dedicated builder-guys I know have been doing remodels and repair jobs for the last 2 years. Me too. Nothing new is being attempted here, in the Seattle area.
Physically, it's getting tougher. My sinew feels the decades. Old joints creak, lifting power shrinks a bit all the while. The weather and Nature's chaos foreshadow just what shocks you might have to take - cold, mold, wind, rot, pollen, live wires, raccoon shit - but still dole out whatever whim seems perfectly inappropriate. Sheeting the roof? Windstorm. Always. Pouring a slab? Rain. Wanna paint? Cold spell. Merde occurs. Remodel is hell. Dust knows no bounds. It will end up in your lungs, if you're breathing. (Fact: Most people do breathe. Forget where I read that.)
The center doesn't hold.
What's the solution - hell, what's the question? (Is this a quiz? Damn, I've had few beers.)
Episode IV: A New Hope
We all have learned in our own lives that there are tricks to any speciality. (Cue music.)
Oh, tricks. I LOVE them.
Chisels love to cut with the grain, so I try to do that. The wood gives and you can almost hear a sigh of submission. Sweet. Notches want to BE.
If you can get directly underneath a huge load, you can move it. Twenty-foot-long 6x6 pole? (I'm lucky...I look good doing it.)
No one had an 'easy' childhood. Going from 2 cells to fifty trillion in 20 years is exhausting. You need sleep, and gravy. Lots of gravy.
And stimulus. Work. Travel. Diversion. Play. Interests. Romance. SOMETHING. People need something. (Damn, I'm brilliant.) Jim Morrison basically said that people need 'something sacred.' Without a sacred something, I think there's a 'want.'
I'm in that group. I want. I'm a wanter.
I have my memories, of awesome travel, great jobs, cool clients, tasty food, wonderful times. But I still want. I don't have the job 'I Was Born For.' I love people, but work with wood, steel, gypsum, tools. I love languages, and foreign culture - but concrete is silent. I crave an audience in my work life, but my 'friends' are occupied by others now.
I'm starting this again to remind myself that I used to like to write - to word-process, to assemble words within a construct - and think of strange things.
Building is no longer strange to me.
I'm diving into the deep end of the pool.
See you there.
This current update of the old "Dead 'N' Berryed" is brought to you by the Greek Letter I can't find on this keyboard that represents 'Delta.'
Which implies a change. A transition. Metamorphosis. To some, smoke and mirrors.
I suppose I'm tired of being a residential builder, building things, but only because I'm getting older, and - reluctantly - wiser. The market has completely fallen out on new construction. The dedicated builder-guys I know have been doing remodels and repair jobs for the last 2 years. Me too. Nothing new is being attempted here, in the Seattle area.
Physically, it's getting tougher. My sinew feels the decades. Old joints creak, lifting power shrinks a bit all the while. The weather and Nature's chaos foreshadow just what shocks you might have to take - cold, mold, wind, rot, pollen, live wires, raccoon shit - but still dole out whatever whim seems perfectly inappropriate. Sheeting the roof? Windstorm. Always. Pouring a slab? Rain. Wanna paint? Cold spell. Merde occurs. Remodel is hell. Dust knows no bounds. It will end up in your lungs, if you're breathing. (Fact: Most people do breathe. Forget where I read that.)
The center doesn't hold.
What's the solution - hell, what's the question? (Is this a quiz? Damn, I've had few beers.)
Episode IV: A New Hope
We all have learned in our own lives that there are tricks to any speciality. (Cue music.)
Oh, tricks. I LOVE them.
Chisels love to cut with the grain, so I try to do that. The wood gives and you can almost hear a sigh of submission. Sweet. Notches want to BE.
If you can get directly underneath a huge load, you can move it. Twenty-foot-long 6x6 pole? (I'm lucky...I look good doing it.)
No one had an 'easy' childhood. Going from 2 cells to fifty trillion in 20 years is exhausting. You need sleep, and gravy. Lots of gravy.
And stimulus. Work. Travel. Diversion. Play. Interests. Romance. SOMETHING. People need something. (Damn, I'm brilliant.) Jim Morrison basically said that people need 'something sacred.' Without a sacred something, I think there's a 'want.'
I'm in that group. I want. I'm a wanter.
I have my memories, of awesome travel, great jobs, cool clients, tasty food, wonderful times. But I still want. I don't have the job 'I Was Born For.' I love people, but work with wood, steel, gypsum, tools. I love languages, and foreign culture - but concrete is silent. I crave an audience in my work life, but my 'friends' are occupied by others now.
I'm starting this again to remind myself that I used to like to write - to word-process, to assemble words within a construct - and think of strange things.
Building is no longer strange to me.
I'm diving into the deep end of the pool.
See you there.
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