Everything can unpack fractally. And into the room of recounting comes a cat racing in mad pursuit of, something.
Huge parachute snowflakes drift in slow motion outside the window. Zigzag a cat. The spaghetti is plated, peas steaming. And here we are, conversing about Blink, which we have been rereading aloud over the last while.
He says something like, —Micro-facial expressions are honest but who needs honest glimpses of contempt?
—I know what you mean. For example at the wine and cheese a lady asked me the lay of the room I pointed out cheese table, dessert table and the lady asked what about that one?, and I felt my nostril rise, —uhhh, various species of fish and other animals.
One lady tilted an eye at her shrimp, said, in a carefully enunciated slow chipper tone to the other how good it is.
So, is my middle name faux pas or TMI?
I was trying to be offhanded, neutral while trying not to bring back that mental image. No one needs to know my eyes tear up and stomach goes to nausea at flayed and laid out animals. And to let that ick slip to strangers kiboshed any other possible conversation as they sidestepped to other conversational options.
Maybe with a faster tongue I could have recovered the moment, but I was mortified at insulting their values, not paying attention to what they were enjoying. I want to notice and enter other people’s joy even when the source is incomprehensible.
And… the cat scores. Whatever it was just went down the heating return vent. She’s meowing down the vent at her lost capture.
Hubby is fishing out a lost cat treat, 2 toys. She’s chasing again.
What is she chasing? Her butt is waggling as she’s “in hiding” behind a table leg and the one eye of the olive can’t see her about to pounce. Where did she get an olive?
She has knocked over a package of drained olives onto the floor. At least they were drained. When did she sneak onto the counter?
Olives are scattered all over. She’s lost the second one but shoots after a third.
Lordie, never a dull moment.
And out on the rest of internetz, Mean People Fail is a thought-post by a Paul Graham on how Start-ups succeed when people who care about the good of all are in charge. And although I generally avoid Cracked, BoingBoing, and other repeater sites this is worth a signal boost on accidentally inciting hate which talks about all kinds of power dynamics that cause undercurrents in dynamics, getting also under its banner of being aware of privilege from a different angle, even down to the toilet seat norm is not a problem because it doesn’t bother me. That sort of nitty-gritty practical.
Was that the biggest interval on this blog ever?
Even travelling thru Europe for a few weeks I had skeleton posts.
It’s not for lack of thing to say or show but too much. Been writing and reading and doing and seeing. And blogging very little of it. Partly I don’t get boo. Twitter and Facebook and instagram have thumbs up or retweets or something. Perhaps I can install a plugin of thumbs up so y’all can acknowledge you were here without too much time investment. But platforms are moving on I know. I like to have my content on my own platform rather than creating content for advertizers not of my choosing. My data is scraped and catalogued and sold enough as is.
But que sera. Sometimes staring is the best use of time, as someone chided me by email when I emailed her from the train. Don’t read, don’t write just take the chance to stare. It is a wonderfully plotless space where you can’t do much. Especially on the train back that jiggled as if there’d been a frost heave since our trip out.
The shed passed with the roof metal blown in sheets across the yard while all the contents of the log shed stay inside the frame, broken 4-wheelers, wading pool on end, miscellaneous tools inside the honest decay, the marker of mine inside the fence.
The tonka truck on the wrong side of the chainlink and the whistle stop where the earring hung on the chainlink as if it would be retrieved. The backyards that try to impress no one. The industrial look of the world. The matchbox cars on the parallel road passing the church. The clutch of turkeys, more than I’ve ever seen wild and in a flash as gone as me. The wetland somewhere without name with a post in the water and a green toilet affixed to its top. Art? Nesting box?
The landscape you bypass goes without explanation. Gratifying in a way. The wire fence with snow stuck to it. The wire fence run thru the water immersed in ice up to its top wire. The glimpse of horses in blankets. I was once blamed as being more interested in questions than answers. I position myself as not knowing, as curious, observing and don’t mention when I find answers. I’m not looking for authorities or guidance or answers. I just structure verbally in questions. It doesn’t mean what you might think.
Something about the scrubland impresses me more than the mountain or prairie. Rock and swamp feel welcoming. I can be equal to that. Each patch seems unique as if I stayed in a squat I could name each sedge, not in terms of hairy wood sedge versus blue stem but as in, that seed sprouted Henrietta and that one Lentster, and that one Clive. It’s not patriarchal to name things. Perhaps if you believe Adam was permitted and Eve wasn’t but it’s not as if they existed. Forget the stories you have been told. Make new ones.
It’s not called grounding, for nothing. Ground helps with that. But it’s cold out there. Winter can get all abstracted and worried in the heated closet of home.
The internet is visual Redbull. It’s easy to get overstimulated. It can be all heroes arc and villains all the time without nuance. Infinite options, news, some kind of informational black hole. The rate of reading is so much faster disclosure than conversations wending about.
Somewhere on twitter someone said it articulately. Something like: Say no to any things that aren’t a ‘heck yeah! I’m in.’
To add to the glad game, migraine medd, Motrin and sympathy when I crash.
Phone connection and emails to check on those I love from far off.
An aunt being back out of the hospital.
Making time for a walk and a spontaneous date long enough to get thru debriefing and onto dreaming. HY.
There is so much to do but balance means mixing it up. There’s no natural end to work. Boundaries are arbitrary and imposed.
I could keep on going headlong, or allow myself to be pulled up short by, “I’m not demanding that you work harder or faster. What I’m asking you is what your priority is.”
Lack of focus can be a good thing. The body kicks against it but still it’s a Heck Yeah.
While I don’t entirely approve of premature jubilation for Christmas, dozens of little kids shouting Merry Christmas kinda wavered me over the line.
And although I know I give too much information all clustered up at once, a lot goes on.
And the bonhomie of the Railroad reading Series last night with a warm room of poems by Yvonne Blomer, Paul Tyler Monty Reid, Claudia Radmore.
And tomorrow, Santa comes to town. Not this town. Kemptville.
And an hour later Roland and I read at the library at 1 Water Street, which is mid-way thru the route, which is probably done by then, right. How fast can 100 floats move?