Ask your doctor about Tinyhands
Who is it? Oh, I'm sorry. I can't come to the door right now. I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a bad spill down the stairs and subject myself to further school absences. You can reach my parents at their places of business. Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. Have a nice day!
Serving Size: 1 Tinyhands
The thing that kind of sucks is that people are a work-in-progress. It would be nice if we could pick one up, like a book, and flip to the back to see how it's going to end. Who in their right mind would buy a book missing the last half, last chapter, or even the last page? But we do it with people all the time.
The next time you pick up a book, and hopefully it will be an interesting one, try to enjoy the fact that you don't know what's going to happen next. If you find yourself able to too easily predict the outcome of subplots and incidents, set it down and find another. Perhaps a friend, or even a stranger, can recommend one you hadn't considered.
If earth was heaven, and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I'd be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn't be you.-E. E. Cummings, "If"
George's Flower
Recently
I had about a 2 hour tear-up yesterday. I didn't realize it until today, but yesterday was the 2nd anniversary of my de-marriage. No, the tears weren't over that, I was watching
My Life on cable. That movie gets me in just the right spot, a combination of sad story, happiness, and self-pity. I hadn't seen it in years but I remembered all the bits that always get me. Especially when, after he should already be dead, he gives thanks for being around to see the birth of his son. That really gets me. I had forgotten that the role of the Chinese healer is played by
Dr. Haing S. Ngor, who is best remembered for his Oscar winning role in
The Killing Fields, another movie that reduces me to tears every.damn.time. I had also forgotten how EXCEPTIONALLY bad
Nicole Kidman's acting is in this movie. Seriously, she almost ruins the film in several scenes. I liked her in both
Dead Calm and
Malice, but I'm tired of cutting and pasting the links, so look them up on your own.
So yeah, I admit
(once again) that I'm capable of crying. Not all the time though, and not all that easily, so I'm not some soggy pansy. I think I've long ago given up the fantasy that what passes for my masculinity will somehow psychically reach
Alessandra Ambrosio and she'll show up here ready to settle down and start a family.
(And yes, due to the restraining order, psychic powers would be required.) But in case there are any other beautiful women out there willing to break the cycle of dating doctors, lawyers, and minor European royals feel free to look me up.
(There is SO much more I could say on that subject, but I won't.)I suppose I should somehow mark the anniversary of my de-marriage. In case you're new here, I've taken to calling myself
de-married instead of divorced since the breakup wasn't that big of a deal. I really hate the word divorced too. It sounds so negative and dysfunctional, regardless of how well negative and dysfunctional describe me. We split up our stuff, paid some lawyers a couple thou, and whammo - no longer married. I haven't spoken to the plaintiff in months, and I think our last communication was actually a text message. Yes, I think about her from time to time and no, it's not all bad. I suppose I'll always have those unanswered
"what if" questions, but I usually manage to rather successfully avoid asking them. But, wherever she is, let her be. Happy belated anniversary, darling.
Progress
I'm still too upset for a proper entry. After chasing his fucking queen around for nearly 45 minutes I finally mated him. Then "application error" and the sonuvabitch shut down.
An update on the body-snatcher...
The largest of the leaves is the
spike from two weeks ago. The other two leaves weren't any bigger than the two spikes you can see in the center of the crown
(and there's a third around the other side). It's amazing that you can almost sit and watch it grow. I'm hoping for a flower spike soon, which I hope will produce the highly fragrant blooms. Then we can sit and drink our cocoa
(coffee is forbidden, but you can have extra marshmallows. tiny ones.) and read the morning paper in there.
The blurry pink blobs off in the background are my tiny roses.
Getting religion
This was my Easter basket this year, complete with bunny motif.
Thursday Rhymes With Gardening
SongWhen I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me.
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet.
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain.
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Hap'ly I may remember,
And hap'ly may forget. -Christina Georgina Rossetti
AchooI have a tiny rose bush,
That made a tiny rose.
When I was bent,
To test its scent,
Pollen got on my nose. -Tinyhands
The depths
I love the water. Swimming, diving, skiing, snorkeling. Anything and everything, freedom from gravity and the bounds of the earth. I've only been scuba diving once, and though I thoroughly enjoyed it, I prefer snorkeling and free diving. True free diving, as practiced by professionals, is a difficult and dangerous sport, requiring a lot of preparation and concentration. A single breath is the only equipment required, though a mask and fins definitely help. I've never competed, but I have my own records. Descending to the depths is painful, as is the long slow climb back up, but the journey is always worth it.
Considered Responses
I love to write between the lines. I'm not quite as skilled at reading between the lines, but I'm always looking for clues. I enjoy reading someone else's blog and seeing a connection to a particular song or movie quote, hoping it'll mean something to the other person as well.
(A friend of mine and I used to have entire conversations using movie lines and lyrics.) I got a message the other day and, I kid you not, I spent at least an hour coming up with the response. It's one of the luxuries of my lifelessstyle that I can spend the time doing that. Well, I partially take that back- I
have to spend that much time doing it otherwise I'd go crazy and my brain would turn to mush. Next thing you know I'm watching Dr. Phil. And nobody wants that. So I fire up the Google, the thesaurus, the web-translator and I go to "work."
This is not the message for which you're looking.
I got a bit distracted last time, as happens when surfing the web. I came across some poetry that I really liked. I don't generally like poetry. It comes off as too self-absorbed.
(I know what you're thinking- How could I of all people tell?) I like opera and the symphony, so I'm not entirely without refinement, but I can't stand ballet and I digress. I managed to put a little fright into someone when I read some of the poems to her - somewhat suicidal in tone, but I just liked it is all. One of the poems sunk a little deeper than I initially thought and turned up as a dream that night. I can't go into too much detail
(no it wasn't a naughty dream) because it's embarassing. Embarassing because, although I don't put a whole lot of credence into dream analysis, this one was my subconscious slapping me right in the face. Hard. It was so obvious that I woke up and immediately knew what it was about, giving up on something that I thought I wanted.
It makes me a little afraid to go to sleep again, since I wonder what I'll have to give up tomorrow.
PS: If you didn't already know, our friend Jethro is a talented musician. You can see a clip of him here. PPS: I doubled the size of my "Houston at Night" photo album this past weekend. I hope you enjoy.
Dave isn't real
1:30AM-
The streets aren't quite deserted, but I am about as alone as possible in a city this size. It's not dark. It never gets dark, and it's not the fault of individual street lights, there's always reflected light in the clouds from the accumulated lights of the streets and buildings. Neither is it quiet. There's a distant hum from a generator used to power a blinking street-detour sign. A truck idling behind a restaurant as the night crew unloads supplies. Every few minutes, a distant siren. The low indeterminate rumble of a train,
somewhere off in the distance, passing through. There's even a faint click as the traffic signals cycle through their pattern, halting and permitting no one. All of the sounds, distant. It hasn't rained in a while, but a low pressure system over here and a high pressure system over there have conspired with the wind to draw moisture and humidity from elsewhere. Also just passing through. The only smell is that of the humidity, simultaneously foreign and all too familiar. It has taste as well, but not the kind sensed with tongue or palate. It's heavy without being stifling, but the stifling-kind sits perched on the horizon, waiting for summer. Otherwise, there is no touch. The wind tickles the hairs on my arms, on my legs, on my neck. Not a satisfying touch though, not a connection. Not a sense, because I'm about as alone as possible in a city this size.
There I was in the middle of it all...
Turning over a new leaf
Why so sad panda bear?
I think I told you, a couple of months ago, about my friend whose girlfriend dumped him by showing him her engagement ring. Last weekend another friend got dumped by a girl. This time it happened rather unexpectedly while they were out on a date. They were at the movies and, just as the lights dimmed for the previews, she turned to him and said "It's over. Enjoy the movie." and walked out. Now that is one stone cold premeditated bitch. But makes a good story.
Since I can't get a job I figure I'll create one of my own. I was thinking about starting a specialized catering business that only serves lunch for all the busy corporate types in the highrise corporate towers near where I live. I think I'll call it "
To Serve Man."
For someone: (Using Homer Simpson voice) Mmm, foot.
You think that's bad...
My nephews are dirty, foul little beasties, but they're well-loved so it's all good. On more than one occasion they've spilled something on something nice, either destroying it or making it not so nice anymore. And as tragic as that might seem, they're just kids and that's what kids do so nobody stays mad.
Recently the boys were out playing in the mud and got themselves covered from head to toe. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but I'm told that it was caked so heavily in their ears that it looked like they'd been spackled shut. My sister just let them play, since they weren't causing any real harm and they weren't in much danger. But sooner or later everyone has to go inside and get cleaned up.
My sister peeled layers of clothing off of them, only to find more mud underneath. Caked underneath armpits, belly buttons, and just about everywhere imaginable I'm sure my sister thought for at least a second that they'd never come clean. As she stripped the little one naked and put him in the tub, there was even mud where once had been underpants. The little one looked down and with a whiny voice reminiscent of having spilled grape juice on the sofa cushions said,
"Mommy, my penis is RUINED!"
