Snow globe world

The giant is shaking the snow globe again. The sky is gray-white that shimmers a faint washed out copper at the horizons. The white creeps down the mountain outside my window, wreathing the upper reaches in mist. Smoke signals drift lazily upwards, fanning out in a slight breeze that barely stirs the tiniest branches. The world is cold and silent, winter hushed. But here life is heating up.

I made some butternut squash soup a few days ago, cooling it in the fridge, mellowing the flavors. Last night I heated it up and mashed the big pieces of carrot and squash and onion with a potato masher. It didn't work. I borrowed the landlady's hand blender and fell in love. That's what I want for Yule -- a hand blender -- so when I make roasted pepper soup with black beans or butternut squash soup with sour cream and toasted pumpkin seeds or split pea soup or any blended soup I don't have to worry about spilling it all over the floor and the counter getting small batches into the blender, pouring it into another bowl, dirtying up the few dishes I own and the counter just to pour it all back into the pot and serve it. Unlike many women, I love getting tools for Yule.

I shared the soup with Nello across the hall, and the landlady when I returned her hand blender, and had a couple of bowls myself. It was the perfect meal for a cold winter night when the stars where obscured by clouds and blowing snow. Or for any winter night, come to that. Nello brought the container back a few minutes later, a big smile on her face and a searching look in her eyes that said she wanted more. Nello said it was just the right thing to warm her up and make her feel cozy. "Just what I needed."

And then I got the message. An email.

Gus, he of the lovely spontaneous prose, wrote to ask if I had any plans for New Year's weekend and if I'd mind if he came to town to take me out for coffee or a meal? He said, "We should know within 5 minutes if we like each other." I guess we'll see because I said I had no plans. And I didn't until last night.

In the past few years my New Year's dates have been me, myself and I. Sometimes a bottle of champagne was involved, but it was still just me and the animals and the silence and the music playing from the computer in the loft. I haven't had a date for New Year's in years. I did think Michael would ask me, but he's been busy and I've been ill and we haven't talked all that much in the past week. I do know he's going home to California for the holidays and I doubt he'll be back before New Year's Eve.

Someone told me 2006 was going to be my year. If this is any indication of the coming year, they could very well be right. I do know things are changing and changing quickly.

I suddenly realized that I miss writing poetry and have been visiting old poems and stories on the All Poetry site and even wrote a couple new ones for contests. I didn't know until I checked out the site again in response to an email to come back how much I missed it. That's not all I miss.

I miss writing. I planned to edit and flesh out Past Imperfect, my entry for NaNoWriMo this year, but I feel other stories bubbling just below the surface, ready to explode from my mind -- and my fingers. Something inside me is coming back to life. That something that always sent me running to the keyboard or reaching for a pen. And I'm sure I'll have lots to write about, although not a lot of time for it.

I've taken on the newsletter for the PPRAA and my first issue will be January 2006. Taking on the newsletter also means taking a seat on the board of directors. I'm sure I'll find something to do, even if it is just shaking up the ant farm. In the meantime, I'm getting all kinds of help and offers of help and invitations to parties. So, instead of just doing the monthly ham exam sessions between here and Woodland Park, I'll also be sitting on boards, helping plan hamfests, interviewing people for articles, writing about amateur radio and hams in the news (or putting them in the news), as well as carving out some time for prose and poetry...and maybe a date or three (or more).

The drama last summer is responsible for birthing this explosion of activity that forces me out of my solitary aerie and into the world more and more and I thank the people involved. If it were not for them carrying tales and sparking and interest in this lonely traveler, I would be content to sit and watch the world from my window-walled room, venturing forth only for necessities and the occasional movie. So, thank you all for shaking up this ant farm.

Just one more

As I save the old files in Linux compatible format, I found another poem I'd like to share from that long ago lover.

NASCAR Girl


Almost flying the road opens wide
driving into the perfect blue sky of the future
the feel of hot metal and the scream of the wind
I punch through the clouds like an eagle
high enough to see forever, a super vision,
but what I see is ever so much better,
it’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s waiting for me,
looking for me,
wanting just me,
so glad I met her,
just perfect for me,
she’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s better than ever.

Her beauty isn’t superficial.
Her knowledge is rather special
(this is no empty head, no bows or frills
not the hanger-on blonde with no thought
other than the thrill of maybe getting laid).
How many fools have walked past her.
She wears a black Tee with white letters
above dual checkered flags that says
“Death Rules!”
She has reached out and tasted it
her tits sag and sway low beneath
and if you ask she’ll show you
scars that will take your breath away.
She says, “I’m always naked under my clothes,”
with a smile stretching here to Dover.
She’s a little fat, but so damn cute,
a voice like a song, a piccolo, a flute.
She can think, write, and play the day
like a rock song or Beethoven ode
and ride with you and roll with you
laugh with you and chide with you
until all sorrow sways into forgotten,
like the ‘49 Ford in Thunder Road.
She keeps a journal filled with stories
of the road journey of her soul.
Behind the flash of her true blue eyes
she is molten joy at just being alive,
it bubbles and seethes and boils at
the chance of love, the rumbled exhaust,
the breakneck speed, a love of the fast,
and asks, "How much time do we have left?”
She is no stranger to grease and oil.
Quicker and more deft with a five-eighths box
than most guys I know, and she knows and says
that the torque settings listed are way too low.
On the street and when she's ready to go
she likes a four-speed with a short sure shift.
All this with a heat that warms like the sun,
with a love that sears like an iron,
with the hot soft lips of a dark angel
with a hardness then a softness then
a flat out run toward the finish
a full power shift into ecstasy
now one forty flat out down the hot straight
coming hard off the turn
the RPMs taching up and up
driving, driving
only inches from the wall
flying past fast
the roar of the crowd
the howl of existence
the rush at the edge
the nothing of tomorrow
and all the flags waving.

She calls me her Darlington.
She can be silly, yet cool.
She was looking for a driver
so she could give everything.
“She is my NASCAR girl,
never better a lover,” I thought,
as I smiled at her and turned the key,
now and forever off to the races.

Ain't love wonderful...even if it is a Mayfly existence in a sped up world?

Just one more

As I save the old files in Linux compatible format, I found another poem I'd like to share from that long ago lover.

NASCAR Girl


Almost flying the road opens wide
driving into the perfect blue sky of the future
the feel of hot metal and the scream of the wind
I punch through the clouds like an eagle
high enough to see forever, a super vision,
but what I see is ever so much better,
it’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s waiting for me,
looking for me,
wanting just me,
so glad I met her,
just perfect for me,
she’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s better than ever.

Her beauty isn’t superficial.
Her knowledge is rather special
(this is no empty head, no bows or frills
not the hanger-on blonde with no thought
other than the thrill of maybe getting laid).
How many fools have walked past her.
She wears a black Tee with white letters
above dual checkered flags that says
“Death Rules!”
She has reached out and tasted it
her tits sag and sway low beneath
and if you ask she’ll show you
scars that will take your breath away.
She says, “I’m always naked under my clothes,”
with a smile stretching here to Dover.
She’s a little fat, but so damn cute,
a voice like a song, a piccolo, a flute.
She can think, write, and play the day
like a rock song or Beethoven ode
and ride with you and roll with you
laugh with you and chide with you
until all sorrow sways into forgotten,
like the ‘49 Ford in Thunder Road.
She keeps a journal filled with stories
of the road journey of her soul.
Behind the flash of her true blue eyes
she is molten joy at just being alive,
it bubbles and seethes and boils at
the chance of love, the rumbled exhaust,
the breakneck speed, a love of the fast,
and asks, "How much time do we have left?”
She is no stranger to grease and oil.
Quicker and more deft with a five-eighths box
than most guys I know, and she knows and says
that the torque settings listed are way too low.
On the street and when she's ready to go
she likes a four-speed with a short sure shift.
All this with a heat that warms like the sun,
with a love that sears like an iron,
with the hot soft lips of a dark angel
with a hardness then a softness then
a flat out run toward the finish
a full power shift into ecstasy
now one forty flat out down the hot straight
coming hard off the turn
the RPMs taching up and up
driving, driving
only inches from the wall
flying past fast
the roar of the crowd
the howl of existence
the rush at the edge
the nothing of tomorrow
and all the flags waving.

She calls me her Darlington.
She can be silly, yet cool.
She was looking for a driver
so she could give everything.
“She is my NASCAR girl,
never better a lover,” I thought,
as I smiled at her and turned the key,
now and forever off to the races.

Ain't love wonderful...even if it is a Mayfly existence in a sped up world?

Poetry presents

Many years ago someone wrote me poetry, making gifts of his feelings in words. I'd like to share a few with you.



She Was a Poem She Didn't Know


I could not think a poem any better,
wholly a mystery
the way the words come together
just appear in dark ink on paper
between the letters
that we used to write each other
about writing from the very soul
to become truth, changed, whole
in a world bent on splitting us apart.
Your bleeding, daily, literally
fighting to write and stay alive,
bit by bit you let it unfold but it
left me shaken, quivering, rolling through
the whole story, your bravery and the bold
way in which you walked away
into what you have become,
a flame that doesn't dare to flicker,
a wick that burns no matter the hard wind,
a courage most men could hardly match.
Then you take your pen and write a letter
and tell me you think my poem is better,
that you could not think a poem any clearer,
but the words are all for you, like a mirror,
for the wonder you are, how beauty comes together.
No, I could not think a poem any better.



* * * * * *


When we touch electric


When our lips touch
when our hearts caress
when our souls kiss
with each electric yes
inside every neon sigh
this bright white light
flies and streaks like lightning
drives to the heart this spark
nothing but electrified bliss
that arcs and crackles in your cries.
I think it starts right here above your thighs
and darts to become blazing fire inside your eyes.

Zap! Hot breath. Hot death. Sweet electrocution!


* * * * * * *


I Love You For Your Mind


No, I love you for your mind, woman, for your mind
no, not for your tits that hang like supple pears, apples, ripe grapefruits
succulent and dangling from the tree of life
that suckle me long into the deep of night with your juice and nectar
No, I love your for your mind, woman, for your thoughts
no, not for your nipples sweet and red like the bud of a fresh rose
between my teeth rising and jutting out hard so proud majestic
No, I love you for your mind, woman, for your ideas and dreams
no, not for your breath tumbling and gushing and panting out
in animal sounds, unmeasured sighs, the sometimes screams
inside the hugging and the giving and the pulling and the loving
No, it is your mind I love, in your mind I find love and treasure
no, not in the delicate slope and rise of your belly above your mound
the wisps and curls of hair there in which I play and then twirl around my finger
then traces, toying, the thin skin around where you were joined to your mother
No, what I love you for is your complete grasp of European history
that you know the significance of Napolean's stunned defeat at Waterloo,
this huge and wheeling turn of history,
long after the master stroke of simplicity to take it all at Austerlitz
no, not for the mystery of the parting of your flesh, this entrance to heaven
where the angels sing and call me to answer and offer prayers upon my knees
my lips and tongue and teeth all kneeling and gnawing to enter here these heavenly gates
No, I love you for your mind, your cleverness revealed in contract talks
no, not for your sweet lips that close tight and hard around my stalk
humming a tune and waiting for the sudden hot electric shocks
No, it is for your mind, the intricacy of your curiosity that turns me on
not the wonder and the glory of your most perfect ass
not the delicacies I find in every crack and crevasse,
No, I love you for your mind, woman, but only for this single thought:
when you think that yes, yes, you'll go on,
go on forever, thinking that you'll never ever stop loving me
and suddenly, hell, I just love the way you think.

That is all. Now go write some poetry to someone you love. Yule/Xmas/Chanukah is coming/here.

Look what I found...

While converting one of my computers to Linux, I found I could get into hard drives and files I haven't seen in years. Some of the things I wrote and thought long gone have resurfaced through the cyber murk and make me smile. I wonder what prompted some of the pieces and clearly remember what gave birth to others. There is even a goodly bit of erotica that I need to find somewhere to post and might even create another LJ just for that. If you're interested, let me know. Otherwise I'll keep it to myself and you'll miss some really hot and spicy vignettes.

For right now, here is a tongue firmly stuck in cheek piece called --

Homeless Advantage

No responsibility. No time clocks to punch. No ruts to faithfully pace day after day after day. It’s a dream come true. It’s what we all wished for every year as we blew out the candles on our birthday cakes, and now it’s ours to live day after day after day. Bums do it. Winos do it. Even the mentally ill do it since the state facilities set them free to get their piece of America’s dream. Now middle class women and children can do it, too.

Ah, America, land of opportunity, freedom and, if the Bill of Rights is nonfiction, we have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We all have the right to choose – even if the choice is being homeless.

Being homeless can be a lot of fun if you handle it in just the right way. It’s all a matter of choice. Try to make sure you do it in the right city, though. Some cities offer no real opportunities or enough choices to make an informed decision.

Charitable organizations in some cities offer you free food, of a rather bland and predictable nature, or you can choose dumpster diving as a change of fare du jour. Let your palate be your guide.

If you’re prone to ulcers, the blander menu would be better for you. Your children can always dive for snacks before bed to satisfy their preference for fast food. There’s nothing faster. It’s a matter of taste.

They can wallow in food and have all their condiments right at their fingertips, nose, mouth and many other places that food hasn’t had a chance to get near since they were babies learning to eat with forks and spoons.

Forks, knives and spoons are optional unless you still have a family heirloom of white plastic laying loose somewhere. If you’re watchful and lucky you might even find a few in among your food. What a bonus! No restaurant ever offered you more for your money.

You can join your children and enjoy a little quality time together. But if you were really honest with yourself you’d admit that you like a little junk food now and again. Where else can you go for real junk food?

Dumpster diving doesn’t have to be your sole option, nor does the bland, tasteless fare from missions or free hostels. Keep in mind that even the most unpalatable stodge is far superior to the cramping complaints of a stomach on a strict no-food, no frills diet. You could take time from your open schedule to earn a bit of pocket change to buy a few inexpensive tidbits to supplement your tightly varied meals, like a pack of gum or day old donuts or bread. The green stuff is good for you –where do you think penicillin comes from. And just think of the benefits of having a natural antibiotic in your system when you get cut on the rusty bits on dumpsters or get bitten by rats.

Earning money need not put too big a crimp in your idle style if you’re intelligent about it. All you need do is cultivate the ability to appear needy, heart rending and just a little obnoxious if the situation warrants when charity is not uppermost in the minds of your would-be benefactors hurrying down the streets on their way to those boring, time consuming ruts you’ve been clever enough to avoid.

Work smart not hard – teach your kids the business. Send them onto the streets you never allowed them to play near when you were tied down to a mortgage or rent. They can stroll along the curb and look for loose change. After all, they are closer to the ground and all that bending does tend to get to be a bit tiresome after a while when you’re having trouble just standing up straight.

Pennies add up just like the old cliche says. If you watch for pennies they’ll soon turn into dollars. There’s very little for the price of a penny these days though. Thank you lucky stars for that. Penny candy would just rot your children’s teeth and spoil their dumpster dinner. Save your pennies for those cold days ahead when your options are fewer and wanderlust beckons.

My favorite way to support the nasty habit of eating – a monkey on my back I’ll never be able to get rid of – was to sell blood plasma to the local donor center three or four times a week. That $15 or $20 every other day or so adds up to a tidy sum when you sit down and think about it. Since plasma centers don’t take children you’ll have to keep this source of income all to yourself. Can’t let the kids have all the fun.

My favorite time when donating was afterwards. The first beer after your tour of duty on the comfortable plastic lounge in the donor center just hits the spot. It numbs your stomach and your brain and replenishes the fluids you’ve sacrificed to your addiction for food. It also costs less than a square meal.

If you’re averse to the benefits of hops, water, sugar and the fermentation process there’s always a free fountain full of icy water in every big office building’s lobby. What more could you want? It’ll also help fill your stomach to stop it’s everlasting complaining. That rumbling noise can be so nerve wracking, especially when it’s coming from your stomach.

Balancing all your creature comforts won’t be too difficult if your children have done their parts. You can live like a king in the spring, summer and early fall and profit from the healthful atmosphere of the wide open spaces when it’s warm and dry. But don’ sell rainy days short because they help create the pitiful appearance you’ve tried so hard to maintain. Thunderstorms, and the occasional downpour, also save you the expense of wasting your hard-earned money on a facility with a shower. Nature does provide well for its itinerant offspring.

Save your money for those lean times in the winter when nature’s accommodations become a bit too drafty and cold for comfort. Don’t rule out the open shelters and missions in those times of wintery bluster so close to the giving season of Christmas. A red-cheeked face, shivering body and waif-like children come in so handy to remind the workday slaves of charity and generosity in that most holy of seasons dedicated to the birth of Christ and the open-handed largesse of Santa Claus.

Make the most of every advantage to stockpile your acquisitions. At the very least newspapers, catalogs and advertisements for Thanksgiving and Christmas sales will go far toward feathering your cardboard nest if you’re less than happy about parting with your vacation cash.

Remember the lesson of the birds that migrate south at the first sign of cold weather. By the time the weather turns nippy you could use the exercise from all the indolence and ease of those bright summery days not to mention how much you’ll save by not having to buy winter clothes and coats.

Traveling is a great education for the children, too. They won’t have to worry about proper clothing, shoes or peer pressure either. Homelessness is so much healthier for their budding psyches.

Without telephones, television, radio or movies they won’t succumb to the flash of colorful clothes, warm-up jackets or expensive shoes. Sandals are much more suitable to wear with summery clothes. They will be somewhat in fashion with the holes and tears in their clothes. Some things are just unavoidable.

Drugs won’t be a problem for you or your children. They’re expensive and unnecessary. They don’t offer you and yours the luxury of getting away from it all when you already have. The numbness and euphoria working people find so addictive are already yours from cold and lack of food. Why waste your savings paying for what you can get for free?

Outside of a little petty thievery to help with those lean begging times to keep the kids’ eye-hand coordination sharp as a tack, their quick thinking on the beam and their reflexes honed to perfection from those quick getaways. Crime is not a problem either.

Who’d want to steal from you and where could you hide the loot if you stole anything more than you could easily hide or eat? Of course, store owners do have a prejudicial tendency to want to keep you out of their establishments, but you don’t want their overpriced, defective, middle class goods anyway. That’s what you’ve been trying to avoid. The decor would clash w the manila color of your cardboard abode anyway.

Schooling for your children isn’t really necessary if they choose to take over the family business. If they wish for the rutted rat race you can teach them yourself. What better education that learning on the job?

Reading, writing and arithmetic will be the easiest because they are a part of your daily life. They’ll learn to read by the signs and papers they use to line their clothes and bedding. Writing is just as easy with all the litter around to use for paper. Pens and pencils are usually found lying in the street. You could invest a few cents in one from a store if push comes to shove – consider it a business expense and take it off your taxes when the IRS gets around to demanding their share of your earnings.

Math will come easiest of all from the practical side of their days counting change and dividing the spoils from dumpster foraging trips.

Current events and geography are easily learned, once again, from newspapers and litter. Science will practically teach itself from observing their own bodies, and yours, as you all physically change by making do with less. Comparisons are easily made between you and the wage slaves who hurry by as they pretend not to notice you.

The state will eventually have to be petitioned for financial aid if they choose to go to college. They might decide to stay with the family business after all. Nothing is impossible. You’ve learned this as you survive from one day to the next.

One song says, “Life’s a ball if only you know it. And it’s all just waiting for you...”

Living is easy when you pay attention and take advantage of the edge you have over everyone else. Homelessness isn’t so bad once you get used to a standard of living so far above the animals that comprise your biggest competition.

After all, animals can’t appreciate the benefits they take for granted every day – time, freedom and the open road whenever they wish to walk it. What more could any astute mammal wish for?

White

Yesterday, winter bowed and made its first appearance with a quiet steady salting of snow. Outside my windows the mountain was hidden behind a dense draping of white as though the world was inside a snow globe some giant shook and shook to obscure all with flying flakes.

The snow globe world outside my window this morning is quiet beneath a clear blue sky with a hint of blurry clouds on the mountain brightly lit with a blazing sun. Squirrels huddle on the ends of slender branches still as statues while clumps of snow fall into the silent street below. Water drips down outside my windows as the bright sun melts the frosting on the roof above me. The streets are nearly empty of all but a couple white mounded cars. Somewhere out there a metal shovel scrapes against a sidewalk, sometimes bumping and banging to loosen its heavy wet burden, as one early bird makes a path through the crystalline powdered white.

Prezzies

I've been down with the flu, as anyone who has talked to me over the past few days can tell, but I have not been alone. Friends, neighbors, the landlady, and new acquaintances have stopped by with food, reading material to make me smile (and sweat), herbal concoctions to help me heal, and one generous soul has even sent healing energy my way. That one generous soul has also kept me company on the phone despite a trip to the emergency room for an accident that could have taken his eye...

...and he sent me this to warm my heart.

As the sun cast down its rays of light and warmth upon the frozen mountain top, slowly turning the ice into water which flows down the mighty slopes, filling in all the deep crevices that time has created, it makes its way to the valleys below where it will give the life force to make all things come back from a long solitude of sleep. The grass will grow. The flowers will bloom. The trees will sprout new leaves. The valleys will once
again shimmer with life.

It is as the same when the heat of passion casts its rays upon a frozen heart. Love will once again flow, filling in all the hurt and pain time has created, making its way through the depths of the soul, nd bringing the life force needed to awaken the heart from its long solitude of sleep. With this all is well and life is good.

Gus wrote that for me last night.

This morning after we got off the phone, he wrote and sent this:

When the light of day meets the dark of night, it is here where all the questions and all the answers of the universe can be found by those who look deep enough with a clear and empty mind!!

Needless to say, Gus and I have a date when he comes back to Colorado Springs.

Down for the count

Or thereabouts. My voice is scratchy and sounds like I have a chorus of frogs lodged deeply in my vocal cords. My nose is by turns runny and stuffy and my head aches. I've felt better. I have the flu. Oh, joy. No Denver weekend for me and no fun outside of this apartment. Good thing I have two new movies to watch, three new books to read and review, a brand new horror compendium, and the Red Hat/Fedora Bible to peruse. I think I'll be fine if I can just get some more of the garlic and rosemary laden Jewish penicillin the guys dropped off a little while ago. And I wouldn't throw a hissy fit if they threw in more of the nuts and dried fruit, herbal teas, and a couple pints of Godiva chocolate raspberry truffle ice cream or Boulder Mexican chocolate ice cream.

And I still have to work the rest of the day. Oh, joy!

There are worse things.

I'm certain there are worse things.

Let me think for a minute.

Oh, yeah, starving children in Africa and China, war in Iraq, the clean up of Louisiana, fire, flood, mayhem, and all that other stuff, but, really, as bad as all that is, I'm more inclined to whine and pray for being able to sleep, breathe, and feel a whole lot better so I have the energy to remember all that.

That is all. Disperse.

Dates and dating

Michael and I went to see Pride & Prejudice with Keira Knightley and Matthew MacFadyen. This version of Pride & Prejudice is much different from the miniseries that have been done by the BBC and A&E, and not just because the movie is 127 minutes long instead of 6+ hours, and of course Colin Firth is not in this one.

The pace of this version of P&P is quicker paced and lighter in tone than the previous adaptations. The vistas are panoramic, if somewhat limited, and the houses and ballrooms much smaller and cozier than previous films, less grand and ostentatious, although Pemberly is still grand and beautiful with marble statues of Mr. Darcy and his family instead of miniatures and paintings. Judi Dench as Lady Catherine de Bourg is a delight despite being such an obvious snob and meddling old biddy, but that is just good acting.

The screenplay is lively and funny and wonderful and the screenwriter did an excellent job of including the social commentary Jane Austen intended when she wrote the book while leaving romance delightfully touching and sweet. Definitely a keeper and one you should add to your DVD library when it comes available.

Michael, a guy and a martial arts expert, really enjoyed the movie and did not consider it a chick flick, so keep that in mind fellas.

After dinner, Michael suggested we have dinner at Red Robin and dinner was full of laughter and thoughtful conversation.

All in all, the afternoon and evening were a success and it was difficult for me to end the evening by going back home and back to work. Lovely work. Only one more sleepless night and a full day of typing and I can head for Denver for a weekend of fun, frolic and mayhem.

What's going on in your world?

Whew!

Yes, it's true. In between working, dating, and spending time with my friends watching movies, I wrote a novel. I didn't think I'd have the time, but I did manage it.

Here's my reward:

And if you're interested in checking it out, go and see for yourself.

That is all. I return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Holiday Hi-jinks

Last weekend Mark came to visit. I picked him up at the airport Friday evening, an hour after he was originally scheduled to arrive because Delta decided to change tires on the plane in Cincinnati, and we went immediately to my favorite Oriental restaurant, Coal Mine Dragon. It was very dark and hard to see the mountains but the sky was clear, the air crisp and the stars bright and close enough to touch. We ordered two different entrees and shared while we talked and laughed and ate and caught up. After dinner we drove to my place and settled in for the night with a movie and lots of conversation.

Getting up early Saturday morning was difficult, but we made it, taking turns in the bathroom, and getting to Celebration in time for the first free seminar. It wasn't what I expected and was more of an infomercial than a free seminar. B & B met us there and B was out the door as soon as he could get through the milling crowd at the door and to the car. He didn't like the seminar much either and he wasn't feeling very well. So, Mark and I said goodbye to the guys and went over to Mountain Shadows for brunch, back to Celebration for a look around and to say hello to some friends, as well as scoping out gifts for Xmas, and then we got into the car and headed north to Wilkerson Pass and South Park. The visitor center was closed for the winter, but the views were still as spectacular and beautiful as ever with a white rime of snow frosting everything.

I needed to go to the bathroom and ended up in a porcelain toilet over a windy chasm that spanked my bottom pink with cold. I was so glad to get out of there and shut the lid on that windy hole as soon as possible. We went up 24 to South Park, looked around and headed back down the mountain toward Colorado Springs and the Garden of the Gods.

We wandered around inside, looking, touching, and literally fondling some of the goods in the trading post, eventually getting coffee for Mark and water for me, chatting and watching the out of towners, then getting back in the car to head back to my place. Little did we know that as we turned onto the road out of the trading post parking lot than we were shadowed by a pair of Bs in their Jew Canoe (that's Cadillac for the uninformed). When I parked the car and Mark and I went around to the front of the house who should we bump into than a panting pair of Bs on the front porch claiming they had waited all day for us to arrive. The story came out shortly thereafter and I invited them into the house to get warm and watch a movie or two. And they did -- until a little while later when they mysteriously vanished like their tails were on fire.

I took Mark into the bathroom to show him the cabinet where I keep all my essential oils and the Bs decided to buzz out of there thinking hanky panky was in the works -- or hoping by leaving they could instigate episodes of hanky panky. Mark and I came out of the bathroom to see the living room light out and abandoned and the Jew Canoe leaving the curb in a cloud of dust with squealing tires. I turned out the hall light the guys left on and put in a movie. Mark and I settled on the love seat and talked and laughed and didn't see much of the movie, so we turned off the TV for the night since we had an early morning Sunday.

Needless to say, we were late rising, but it was just in time to go to Front Range BBQ for lunch and a walk around some of Old Colorado City before we headed back to my place for conversation, laughter, and movies -- and another late night.

The next morning I found out Mark's flight had been canceled during the night and rescheduled for later in the afternoon. Go, Delta! I took off work and we puttered around, went out to lunch and headed for the airport. I didn't find out until later they canceled Mark's flight when he started to board the plane and bumped him to another flight that left nearly five hours later. I went to the movies to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with the guys and Mark couldn't get hold of me to let me know. He didn't get home until after 1 a.m. and he called to let me know he made it.

Tuesday John came over to help me load Linux onto my computer and that took about all day. It took a little time and some work, but we finally got it loaded and working while we laughed and talked and took turns taking apart my computer to put in a new hard drive. He had a massage appointment and left fairly early, but he called back a couple times when my DSL suddenly went down and I wasn't able to get the modem to synch up. I wasn't sure if it was something we had done or not, but we figured it out that it was the phone company's problem and nothing we had done. In the meantime, I played with Linux and got into files I haven't seen in a few years -- about three of them.

Wednesday I met someone who has turned out to be very interesting, quite loquacious and more than a little intriguing, all the more so because he called yesterday afternoon to ask if I'd like to go to the gun show this weekend. Today was out because I had to work, but I said yes to going tomorrow.

Interestingly, he is a ham radio operator who has a fondness for guns and edged weapons and reads a lot of the same types of books and genres I read. He has a fondness for cats and he makes me laugh. He also surprises me a lot, even more so when he asked how I felt about going to New Zealand since he has two round-trip tickets to anywhere in the world and has been waiting for someone to share it with. I think it's a little premature to say if we'll be able to tolerate each other's company long enough for a trip to New Zealand, but I have to admit it's flattering to be asked and a pleasure to meet someone who talks more than I do.

Yesterday was turkey day and I cooked a free range turkey and took it over to B & B's along with a salad and some cornbread stuffing and we had a lovely dinner. B makes the best cranberry relish I have ever had and it was more like cranberry mousse than relish. The ham was very good even without the cloves and dinner was a smashing success. We talked and teased and watched six episodes of Queer as Folk and Catwoman.

Queer as Folk is fascinating and funny and sad and fully realized. I can't say as much for Catwoman with Halle Berry. Halle is a talented actress and she is definitely sexy, but the movie left much to be desired. The special effects were badly done and almost cartoon like without the smooth seamless fit they should have been. The effects were campy and overdone and completely unbelievable. Halle was by turns clueless and shy and a definite victim then sexy and cat-footed and aggressive with little segue from one to the other. Sharon Stone was made of stone and the whole plot ludicrous in the extreme. They should have taken better notes from The Wasp Woman in order to make the story more realistic. Corman had the campier and better film despite the lack of high tech dazzling special effects and CGI. Go figure. I'd give Catwoman a miss unless you're looking for bad entertainment and even then I'd borrow it from the library instead of paying money to rent or buy it.

Right now I'm tired and worn from lack of sleep because someone has kept me up for two nights in a row talking on the phone and going through every battery in the house. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I do need some sleep to pack the bags under my eyes and store them in the attic or basement very soon if I have any hopes of being scintillating, witty and awake tomorrow. Then there's Sunday to plan and Monday afternoon when Michael takes me to see Pride & Prejudice. I guess it's time to get out my track shoes and start training for the holiday hi-jinks that are bound to ensue.

I have already been invited to two -- and possibly three -- Xmas parties, not to mention spontaneous adventures dreamed up along the way. There's also an antenna to erect when John gets time and who knows what kinds of impromptu kidnappings and hijackings before the year's end. Good thing I am taking the last week of December off and will have 12 days of vacation from doctors who refuse to open their mouths to speak clearly, learn proper pronunciation of medical terminology and technical terms or who insist on either eating while they dictate or speaking at the speed of sound without being able to clearly and succinctly speak one work in a hundred. Silence is golden -- especially when you have to listen to chaos and babbling for months on end.

In the meantime, go enjoy the holidays and dive nose first into the festival trough so you'll have something to resolve not to do again -- until next year.

Let it snow!

The sky outside is impossibly blue and there isn't a single mare's tail of a cloud in the sky. Not even bloody con trails cross the infinite blue. The sun is a searing ball of blinding light and the skeletal trees stand silent without a puff of wind to stir their gnarled twiggy fingers. The squirrels race up and down the trees and across the road like they are still in the throes of spring fever.

There is no snow.

There is snow back in Ohio and snow in other parts of this country, even a bit at the higher elevations, but nothing here. I long for the cold crisp bite of snow laden air and the cool kiss of flying flakes on my skin.

There is no snow.

There is, however, sign of the coming season and it is all redneck. Nothing like jumping the gun.



At least someone is planning ahead.

That is all. Disperse.

The real story

Ever hear of Katrina? Did you hear about the communications problems at all levels of government and rescue operations? Remember the Jay Leno Show when two kids using text messaging were beat out by two older men dressed in telegrapher's clothes using a 160-year-old technology? Want to know how these two episodes are related?

Everything you always wanted to know about emergency preparedness and communications

Just a warning, but the Leno video is 8MB and it helps to have broadband to access it. However, you can read about it

That is all. Disperse.

Nothing special

This is one of those days when the sun is a bright dazzling ball of eye searing light in a cloudless robin's egg blue sky seen through the curled and gnarled branches of sleeping naked trees and the world is dusted with a confectioner's sugar sprinkling of snow. The mountains are clear and pale in the light, deep folds outlined in purple and black. The squirrels are slowly climbing down the trees, heads pointed downward, darting around in rushes and spurts of coiled spring energy keeping warm. The streets are silent and white with drifting veils of glittering crystals and a few sere yellow-brown leaves cling safely above the cold hard ground. Winter is nearly here.

I'm focusing on work and finding it difficult because I want to go outside and breathe in the fresh crisp air, let it tickle my lungs with cold and clear the cobwebs from my tired brain. But here I sit working -- or rather writing for the moment -- while work sits unfinished, accusing me of laziness.

If you're of a similar frame of mind, check out a couple of new reviews just posted for Rebel Angels by Libba Bray, the second in a series of books about magic and Victorian teens that made the New York Times Best Seller's List, and Full Moon Rising by Keri Arthur, a first offering in a new series about werewolves, vampires, dhampires, and all beings supernatural in Melbourne, Australia if you need to generate some heat on a frosty winter morning. Keep in mind that it is nearing summer in the land down under while we close in on winter's cold white grip.

Back to work.

A little too bright

After a rough night of wailing winds ripping fragile yellowed leaves from their precarious perches, the sun is a bright ball of light hammering down from a achingly blue sky. The folds in the mountain face are deep irregular slashes of darkness besides brightly lit shades of green and highlighted gold through the twiggy fingers of the bald scarecrow trees on this silent Saturday morning. Birds play tug of war with insects diving into the craggy bark of two-fingered tree outside my window and sere brown leaves cling with tenacious skeletal grips to the precarious attachments here and there. Gone are the Farmer's Market crowds cruising the street looking for a parking place close to Bancroft Park and striding purposefully down 24th like early birds soaring and dipping on the winds determined to get to the fattest and juiciest worms first.

Silver smokestacks rise above green and gray and brown shingled roofs flashing fire that sears my sleep addled eyes. There are chores to do: floors to sweep and mop, dishes waiting in the sink, laundry to be sorted and washed, a bathroom to be cleaned, and the urge to crawl back into the warm shadowed sheets and shade my eyes from the argos-eyed sun, read a book, and wake when the day is not so blinding. I am drunk from broken sleep. So much to do and breakfast is waiting to fill the aching void inside.

I could flip a coin, calling best two out of three, playing the waiting game until big white clouds stray across the horizon and hide that furious blazing search light enough so I can face the day, but it is a stop gap, a bargain struck with a wisp of smoke, and I would still need to keep my date with my chores. It is far too easy to give in to this urge to climb back into the cocoon before my wings fill and dry, but I know I would emerge later, wings stunted and wrinkled, unable to fly.

Breakfast is calling and my stomach rumbles in answer. Time to go.

eBay stories

Once upon a time not long ago I bought some things from eBay. Notably some candle making supplies that cost more to send than their selling price and a couple of hand carved wooden combs, one from China and the other from the Ukraine. I have since found out I could get them cheaper and faster through a website that deals in what I was working with -- essential oils.

Anyway, the Evil One sent me a really hilarious link to an eBay seller who put his past romantic life and his goods on display in full color. Don't forget to read all 21 questions & answers.

Make sure you don't have anything in your mouth when you're reading as I will not be responsible for liquids spewed across monitor screens. Got that, Maryann?

The picture and the story"



Q: Are these boot cut pants and if not what is the width measurement of the bottom of the pant leg? Sep-17-05
A: I do not know what a boot cut is, but the pants are 8.25 inches wide at the bottom.

Q: Seen your ad on VBMX.com.....are you gay? LOL Just kidding!! I would claim these on VBMX!! Now all the guys are gonna think of you as a sissy!! LOL!!! Good luck bro!! Sep-18-05
A: Thanks. That's a lot of exclamation points.

Q: Hi, Sorry I don't want the leather pants but just had to write and say I really had a good laugh at your description!! I really hope you sell them .... and not to a guy! Good luck! Jeannette Sep-18-05
A: If you change your mind and want the pants, I'll be waiting patiently by the keyboard.

Q: For Mr. VBMX: If he were gay, he would know what boot cut means. What does VBMX mean? Sep-19-05
A: I'm not sure. It sounds like a missile.

Q: Well, it looks like you're going to sell them. They're too big for me anyway and I'm female. You're a great writer -- so natural, so funny. I think you should be in standup. Thank you so much for making my day. Sep-19-05
A: Thank you for the kind words. In lieu of standup I post things on Banterist.com. The hours are better and there's no drink minimum.

Q: Bsack, I'm an editor for Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) (http:// www.poormojo.org), a weekly online magazine now entering its sixth year of publication. We'd like to run the text of your posting, with the image of the glorious pants, as a rant on our site. May we do so? Our submission guidlines can be found here: http://www.poormojo.org/submission.html (Long story short: we owe you a beer for one piece--provided you came to Ann Arbor or SF, CA to pick it up--or will reward you with a PMjA t-shirt after we've published 5 of your pieces.) Interested? Best, Dave . . . Editor and Technologist PMjA Sep-20-05
A: Sure, if you don't mind that it's already on Banterist.com.

Q: I am in a band, but do not wear leather pants. However, if I DID wear leather pants, your pants are the ones I would buy because your description is...eloquent and touching in a leatherish sort of way. May we post your ad on our site? Sep-20-05
A: I think I answered this already, but eBay is asking it again for some reason. Thank you for being polite and seeking permission. Sure, you can post it. After all, I'm trying to sell pants.

Q: you enjoy stereotyping people that wear leather dont ya, you think owning leather is gay, let me tell you something i am not gay, i am not famous, dont ride a bike, and unlike i aint a coward. i do own 2 pairs of them, to me they are more comfy than blue jeans ever will be, i where them anywhere i want including church, no ones ever said nothing about them. Sep-20-05
A: More important: Do you need a pair of 34x34 leather pants?

Q: You express yourself exactly like my ex-fiancee. I had to check if you lived in Boulder, CO just to see if you were him. I really didn't think anyone else had his matter of fact mixed with twisted humor personality. Ten years ago I was just ending our relationship so I was going thinking that possibly he bought these pants to try and woo a little waitress vixen with an IQ half that of her bust size. By the way, the last person that claimed that you were stereotyping, did you for some reason envision Dueling Banjos playing in the background with a man sporting a greased back mullet and a makeshift spittoon, and, of course, comfy leather pants, or was that just me? Sep-21-05
A: Yes, the grammar and tone said 'Deliverance' but the leather pants in church said 'Wham UK'. So I'm confused.

Q: I don't actually need the pants... and they wouldn't fit my less than womanly curves even if I could pull them off- but I could not resist telling you what a fabulous ad this is. While reason prevailed in the end, I was almost convinced to buy the pants if for no other reason than to see if I could be coy enough to get a man to wear them in hopes of a relationship with me... fabulous ad, just fabulous. Sep-21-05
A: Sadly I lack the ability to sell people things they don't need - unlike Ron Popeil and The Sharper Image.

Q: No question, just wanted to tell you this is the best listing i've ever read. I'm sorry it didn't work out with the short girl, but am so proud of you for never wearing these. :) Good luck with your sale! Sep-21-05
A: Thank you. I'll be free of them in less than two days, and at least $76 closer to owning a yacht.

Q: If they did still fit.. and I wasn't married, would you wear them for me? LOL.. best of luck! Sep-21-05
A: Yes, but only if I was wearing a pink tank top and re-enacting Billy Squier's regrettable 'Rock me tonight' video.

Q: I would like to be tough, gay or a rock star. Do you think purchasing and subsequently donning these trousers will help? Sep-22-05
A: Probably not if you call them 'trousers.' A true rockstar would say 'pants' or 'duds' or something more rock-star-y, like 'ladykillers.'

Q: FUNNY!! I too have a pair of leather pants to sell and for very similar reasons. Mine also have severe case of closet shrinkage. Thanks for the laugh and happy selling. tom Sep-22-05
A: Hmm. Maybe we know the same girl.

Q: Thank you for the inspiration. I am now thinking of ebaying every little thing....and I do mean little thing that I ever wore to be a man pleaser/enticer. That would have to include stiletto heels, leather bustiers, gstrings and the like.....hmmm, wait a minute....now that I think about it....I might have to bid on those pants and create an ensemble....for myself. Did I mention that I am 5'2? Sep-22-05
A: Hello Senator Clinton.

Q: I just wanted to tell you that you made me laugh aloud! First, when my husband was in high school he apparently bought a white satin Michael Jacksonesque multi-zippered jacket from The Chess King under strikingly similar circumstances. I wonder if it is the same chick . . . Second, my husband and I recently hosted a white trash party, Trailerpalooza. We had been to a 38 Special concert and decided to knock off thier look. So we each bought pleather pants (though these beauties would have been perfect!) and I then sewed flame fabric to the bottoms, as if it was lapping up the legs. We also got leather jackets which we adorned with a bit of flame fabric. Well, somehow, I came out looking like a badass, but my poor husband looked like a homo. In fact someone actually said, -It's amazing how pleather makes Shari look so bad, and Rick so gay.- I wish I had a picture on my computer, because I think it would make you laugh! Anyway, good luck with the sale of your magic pants! Sep-22-05
A: When I was a busboy at El Torito I remember a waiter who saved up hundreds for a replica Michael Jackson 'Beat It' jacket. Zippers everywhere. At the time I thought he was a god. Now I think he's probably buried in someone's tomato garden.

Q: Are these pants worthy of cruising for transvestites while in my Maserati? I just got one and need an outfit that would go with my new car. Sep-22-05
A: I think leather pants would accent that mid-life crisis quite nicely.

Q: Love the pants but . . . I wonder, how many thongs do you think could be made from them? Fruitcreek. Sep-23-05
A: For Americans? 15. French? 45.

Q: LOL. I once knew a guy who actually wore leather pants, loved them, and was very popular with them. That was 15 years ago...he was Italian...and my uncle's boyfriend. Enough said. Sep-23-05
A: Italy shares France's reputation for adultery, leather pants, and aggressiveness to women. Except for your uncle's boyfriend, of course.

Q: I have a friend that emails these types of auctions to me for a good laugh and I must admit, yours is the best I have seen in a long time. Your wording and demeanor are perfect. If I had the cake to spend on something I would never wear right now, I would buy them just for the simple fact you made me laugh that hard. I wish you made commercials on TV so I wouldn't be forced to channel surf when they came on. Kudos to you. Are all your descriptions this funny or is this a fluke? Your replies are excellent and this auction should be on Letterman or something. Good luck and thanks for the laugh. Sep-23-05
A: I used to write commercials, but they're hard to make funny because the people who make the final decisions are idiots. But maybe you'll like Banterist or Sixtysecond.

Q: I'm confused, is Donna Karan a rock star or a transvestite? Sep-23-05
A: It's a very fine line, really.


That is all. Disperse.

Just another day

After working like a dog all day, minus the 90 minutes I took to get a late breakfast, pick up my new contacts (hopefully these will not end up inside someone's cat), go to the grocery co-op to pick up some food, drop off some mail, buy a stamp, pick up a book at the library, and return reluctantly home, I fixed a fresh tuna salad with lots of vegetables, an avocado, a handful of almonds, and ginger-sesame dressing and sat down to watch The Village with William Hurt, Sigourney Weaver, and Joaquin Phoenix, among others.

At first it was difficult becoming engaged in the story. Hard to lose myself in the images because they didn't really make sense. I couldn't understand why two girls would uproot and bury a beautiful red flower. I didn't understand why a young man laughed at the fearsome roaring coming from the surrounding woods or why the people in the little valley existed.

The story unfolded very slowly and was a bit obtuse. It meandered here and there: a girl declaring her love for a young man to her father who suggested she talk to the young man first before telling anyone else. A silent young man who slowly and methodically read his reasons for going to the towns. The heavy religious overtones of the ruling elders and the mixture of laughter, happiness, fear, and silence that dotted their lives like a slow growing mold.

And then it happened.

The story unfolded with a rapid shift of sensibility and consciousness, barreling away at speeds that left me breathless and stunned, coming to a screeching halt as the light dawned slowly and clearly in its most awful colors and configurations. Lies. Deception. Fantasy. Isolation. Loss of innocence. Return to Hope.

The Village is not an easy movie to like or to understand. It's impact is sudden and shocking. The trip through the molasses thick morass of emotions and lives is tedious at times and very deceptive. I will definitely watch it again this weekend because it deserves a second viewing. One thing is certain, M. Night Shyamalan has lost none of his shock value and it is doubtful if he continues to produce movies like The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable, as well as Signs and Wide Awake that he will ever be easy to understand. That is part of the charm and the mystery of his movies.

The Village seems heavy with religious over- and undertones, as are all of Shyamalan's movies, but there is a central truth that makes you stop and take another look, to re-evaluate your perceptions and your beliefs.

And now back to your regularly scheduled lives.

That is all. Disperse.

Surprises and it isn't even my birthday

I trawl over to LJ to post and find that LJ has changed since yesterday. More links, more userpics, and more information than I ever could have wanted. I'll have to check it all out, but not today. Today the sun is a weak ball of fuzzy light peering through the clouds with just enough force to make me squint, but not enough that I can't look directly into it. Then I remember what my optometrist told me about wearing sunglasses whenever the sun is out, even if it's behind the clouds. However, it seems a little strange to go Ray Charles when I'm working inside at my desk. Then again, the sun does shine brightly in here without window coverings and I have to change positions frequently to even be able to read what's on my screen. Good thing I don't watch what I type, huh?

The sun is a watery yellow-white in a grey-white sky from horizon to infinity. The mountains outside my windows are a deep purple smudge and I can see them clearly now that the landlady had vandals come and chainsaw one of the arms off because it was touching the roof. The crotch where the squirrels perform their pornographic shows is still partially there, but their back drop is gone and that severely hampers their Dorothy Lamour long line stretches. Or at least I can't see them since they chose to use the other upright arms and the trunk blocks my view. Now the tree looks like an upraised fist in a two-fingered salute. At least I can see more of the mountains and the gold-studded hills at the base of the midnight folded line of peaks.

The new house across the street has been spray painted a golden tan with white trim and a red door and all the hammering, nailing, and noise is on the inside. They haul in sheet rock and disappear into the depths, coming out again when the sun paints a bloody swath across the horizon and fades into dusk.

Despite all the cars rumbling by, the streets are empty and silent. The street sweepers swish by, lights flashing and rotary brooms bristling away the dirt and rocks and leafy debris. Except for the few cars parked here and there and obscured by trees, the neighborhood is ghostly in its silence and calm, as if waiting for life and sound and activity, a blank sound stage between filmings.

And I have to work. All I want to do is throw on some clothes, don my sunglasses and get lost in the car breathing the smoky autumn air and following the scents of cooking and people and life. I feel as though I've been chained to this desk for ages. I need to get out and breathe and do something other than work for a few hours. I need to brush against humanity and rub shoulders with other seekers before I return to responsibility and schedules and dictations and work.

Word of the day

Every morning as part of my daily ritual, I check my email and then go to Merriam Webster to read the word of the day and to play the daily word game. Today's word struck me as funny.

yahoo • \YAH-hoo\ • noun
: a boorish, crass, or stupid person

Example sentence:
The local teenagers' reputation as a bunch of yahoos was belied by their courteous treatment of the stranded motorists.

Did you know?
We know exactly how old "yahoo" is because its debut in print also marked its entrance into the English language as a whole. "Yahoo" began life as a made-up word invented by Jonathan Swift in his book Gulliver's Travels, which was published in 1726. The Yahoos were a race of brutes, with the form and vices of humans, encountered by Gulliver in his fourth and final voyage. They represented Swift's view of mankind at its lowest. It is not surprising, then, that "yahoo" came to be applied to any actual human who was particularly unpleasant or unintelligent. Yahoos were controlled by the intelligent and virtuous Houyhnhnms, a word which apparently did not catch people's fancy as "yahoo" did.

Kind of makes you wonder why Yahoo! would choose that particular name. Boorish, crass, stupid -- and in my definition, loud. Maybe that's why people have taken to calling them Yahell.

That is all. Disperse.

Can't sleep now...

I received Tim Lebbon's new book, Berserk. One of the great things about being a book reviewer is that I get to see books before they're even on the shelves.

I usually read books in bed right before I go to sleep. It is my answer to Halcyon and every other kind of drug, chemical, herbal tea or concoction to help you sleep. It didn't work last night. Big mistake reading Lebbon's latest at night in bed and even expecting anything resembling peaceful sleep.

I have not even finished with the first chapter yet and already I know this is going to be a frightening book that will keep me awake for nights to come. I read. I fell asleep. I had nightmares that woke me in a sweaty panic. Best to read this one in the light with candles burning and amulets all around so the ghosties and ghoulies do not get close enough to hear the faltering trembling of my overtaxed heart. Talk about meat for the beast.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday snows

I left here in plenty of time to get to Woodland Park yesterday -- or so I believed.

When I got outside it was snowing, a light granular sifting of starred crystals that looked dull and gray beneath the dark overcast sky. I couldn't see the mountains for the clouds and even though it was near 8:00 the sun was a weak kitten drunk on whiskey. Once I got to Route 24, the white hammer descended like a wrecking ball.

At first the going was fairly easy because the roads were too warm for the snow to stick, but that didn't last long as uncounted worlds of snow overwhelmed the roads and any remaining sense the drivers might have had. Four wheel drive trucks stuck in two-wheel drive were fishtailing all over the roads, slipping and sliding backwards towards the ditches. I put on the electronic traction control, dropped into third gear and drove past them, hugging the right berm in case they slid into me. Semis labored up the hill, groaning and roaring as dropped into lower gear. Four-wheel drive trucks and jeeps slowed to a crawl like turtles wearing ice skates for the first time. I maneuvered into the passing lane, careful to keep my wheels straight and my moves subtle so as not to hit the building slushy, ice coating the roads the wrong way and send me careening into the ditch or sideways into the traffic. It was like driving on a Dodge-Em car track with everyone intent on playing demolition derby. Even police cars were stuck in places and one police car slid into the side of the mountain and stayed there, steaming and fuming in the near darkness.

After a somewhat harrowing drive and a couple of near misses where I turned too sharply to avoid being hit, feathering my brakes and turning into the slide, I found the Hungry Bear Restaurant where my fellow MARC VEs were still waiting for breakfast. I was 25 minutes late, but I was there.

We talked about how the ARRL were proposing dumbing down the ham radio license requirements and taking out the Morse code requirement, something none of us want to see, and joked and talked and laughed until time to go to the library and set up for the exams. By the time we left the restaurant (the food was very good and I had a veggie omelet, bacon and a cup of fresh fruit) the sun was busy turning the slushy iced roads to wet shining strips of graveled black. My trip back across the highway was a lot less tentative than when I arrived and I made it to my car without even the possibility of a slip and fall.

We had five candidates for exams, two of them twin boys of about 16 or 17, all but one of whom passed their exams and will have licenses by Tuesday afternoon. A father and son came from Leadville in a blizzard to take the exams. (Good thing the VEs betting they wouldn't make it didn't put down cold hard cash or I would have gone home considerably richer.) The father aced his exam and his son failed. There's always next time.

One of the candidates took the code test and passed. The best part of it is that he was one of the candidates who took and passed the Technician exam when I did my very first VE exam at the hamfest in Monument in June. I was tickled to see him again and to know he passed code. I'm sure I'll see him again when he passes General and Extra, too.

As we whispered quietly at the VE table, I found out that Paul had been voted in as president of MARC (he showed me a copy of the minutes) and that the PPRAA held a board meeting where they decided that I would take over as the new Zero-Beat newsletter editor. They still haven't told me about it yet, but at least they talked about it behind my back. (very big grin)

When all the grading, signing and congratulating/commiserating was over, we took down the tables and put up the chairs and Steve and Wes surprised me by telling me that I was required to attend Hamcon in Estes Park because the MARC VE team does all the exams during the eight-day event. I've long been wanting to see Estes Park and take the tour of the Stanley Hotel where Stephen King's The Shining was filmed and on which he based his overlook Hotel and it looks like I'll get my chance. I will also have vacation time since I'll have been working for Silent Type, Inc. for over one year, so I will be there with bells on.

Oh, there is one other thing. I became a member of MARC yesterday and that makes me a MARC VE, although I was told I was already considered one since I have done five VE exams there since I was accredited. I guess now that I'm going to edit their newsletter, I'll have to join PPRAA and take my assigned seat on the board there. You'd think I was actually getting involved in the community here or something. Add all this to my widening base of close friends and chosen family and it looks like I'm putting down roots for the first time in my life.

The ride down the mountain was a wet, sun shining, melting ice glittering breeze. I went to the movies and ended up sitting cheek by jowl with a room of laughing, screaming, giggling, howling kids. Chicken Little was a sweet and funny movie, but what was really funny was the anonymity and cover that a theater filled with delighted children gives usually staid and fussy adults. They can laugh and giggle to their hearts' content and no one needs to know they enjoyed themselves under cover of the children. Camouflage at its best.

After the movie, I went to Home Depot to get a new handle for my toilet -- one that isn't plastic and won't break again quite so easily -- and became very excited when the clerk took me to the tool corral. There is a set of soldering irons I will just have to go back and get when I get paid tomorrow. One is a needle fine soldering iron perfect for home brewing ham radio projects and the other a shiny new regular tipped soldering iron. I have one that the Luddite bought for me, but since they come in a packaged set I don't want to separate them -- and I'll have a backup. Backups are good.

The clerk, after asking me if I knew where the tool corral was located, welcomed me to the store when he found out it was my first time. He smiled at me and knowingly winked, saying he knew I'd certainly be back. He is right. I will be back -- and it won't take decades for it to happen. Got that MacArthur?

I got back into the car, motored over to Sage Woman Herbs to talk to the owner, Valerie, about iridology, got some information, left, avoided the urge to stop in at Arby's and get a huge roast beef sandwich on a sesame seed mountain of a bun and a chocolate-strawberry milkshake, and drove home to install my new toilet handle (which took all of one minute) and ended my day on a very dramatic note.

Le sigh.

Poetry

I wrote this several years ago and just found it. A little poignant for a bright Saturday morning when the clouds are a hazy gray sketch on the horizon and the air smells of wood smoke and warming earth, but it's better than a kick in the head and I need to get going to Woodland Park for ham exams.





Stolen Moments


The first fire of discovery,
A meeting of electrons pulsing in the dark
Masks cast aside to reveal naked hunger,
A hunger born of need and creative explosions.
Tentative meetings scheduled in the dark,
Joyous discoveries of long buried dreams.
Fantasies wrought and carefully unearthed.
We are born together in a nova burst,
And now we exist turning and burning
on the spit of truth and lies.
We have only the connection of finding,
The truth of knowing,
The delight of recognition,
We are not alone.
Stolen moments out of time,
Minutes pregnant with possibility.
Hours tick by
silence by the joy of touching
voice to voice,
heart to heart.
Passions ignite,
spin out between us
forging a connection,
soul to souls’ desire,
but time is our master;
we can only steal moments,
small ticks of the clock,
infinite beats of the heart.
Stolen moments strung together
by desire,
by creative fire,
Circumstance defeats us,
forces us to be bold.
No subterfuge is complete without the thief.
I am the thief
stealing moments from the future
to hold fast in the now.
Stolen moments,
as precious as they are rare.
Will the end ever come?
Are we doomed to unending thievery,
holding only stolen moments?

That is all. Disperse and have fun.

Sabotage

The word sabotage comes from a time when workers were unhappy with the newfangled machines and threw the wooden shoes they were making -- or sabots -- into the machinery, thus stopping production and making their shoes -- if not their voices -- heard. We call it terrorism nowadays, but sabotage it still is to me -- especially when it comes in the form of friends who are determined to break me down and dangle carrots in my face when I'm doing my best to stick to my plans.

In all honesty, the carrots were really cornbread, dumplings, cakes and pies and the constant reminder by the landlady and B & B that November and December are bad months to begin a 30-day colon cleanse diet that excludes all grains, dairy, flours, etc. They could be right, but November 1st I began the diet and I plan to stick with it no matter what they say. I do know they will all make it very difficult for me and will do all in their power to bend me to their evil wills, but I won't cave in -- even though I will have six days to go on the cleanse. No pain, no gain -- and no pumpkin pie, sweet potato pecan pie with brandied cream (my specialty), rice, dumplings, dressing, gravy... I think I'll shut up now. I am making myself hungry and I just finished my fruit and eggs.

My peace will also be sabotaged on the 18th when a friend from Cleveland flies in to stay the weekend. Since I have a minimum of furnishings right now (bed, desk, office chair, and love seat), the sleeping arrangements will be interesting, but it won't be the first time I've slept on the love seat. And there is always the feather bed in the closet where I slept for the first two months I lived here. I could drag it out and sleep there. Either way, I'm going to be uncomfortable for a while no matter what I do.

Honestly, the whole situation is strange, come to that. I've known Mark for about 5+ years and he almost came to visit in 2003 when I moved to Arvada, but my landlady then was against the idea of me having a guest in my apartment over the weekend. She decided it was inappropriate for a single man and a single woman to share the same space at the same time. What's really interesting about this visit is that even though I've known him for 5+ years, this will be the first time we have met face to face. We've spent hours talking and laughing and swapping information, but never met. I have of course given him the ground rules, but anything is possible.

The guys up at MARC (Mountain Amateur Radio Club) will most likely join in sabotaging my month long colon cleanse diet and have already promised cold gravy and biscuits you can use to patch truck tires, both of which are not on my dietary list. Actually, the only things allowed on this diet are fruits, vegetables, eggs and lean meats. Fats are okay, but grains, dairy, etc. are not allowed. To show how serious I am about this, I even checked out whether or not corn was a vegetable or a grain. I know it's a grain, but where I come from in the corn belt (hold the jokes about my last name) corn is a vegetable and a summer staple on the cob and a year round staple off the cob. To my great sadness, corn is a grain and therefore out of my diet for the next 26 days. No more fresh and hot Parmesan-hot sauce laced popcorn or steaming buttered corn on the cob (if I could still find some).

Okay, so it was a questionable idea to do this the month of Thanksgiving, but I didn't think of that. All I thought of was a nice, clean, well moving colon and eating all the fruit I want for a change, including the dried type. I will have to leave the room when we all get together for Thanksgiving, especially when everyone takes a piece of my sweet potato pecan pie with brandied cream. I don't want them to see me sob uncontrollably. It's just not a good idea when everyone else is celebrating.

Then again, if I didn't start now and get it over with, when would I be able to start? Not December with all the candy canes, chocolates, and holiday parties and dinners. Certainly not in January when everyone else is making the resolutions they will break two weeks later and will do their best to trip me up to join them in failure. Best time is now, just to get it over with once and for all.
The lady who came up to the cabin a year ago August with her three girls emailed me a couple days ago wanting to catch up and say hello -- and ask when she could bring the girls for a visit again. I don't have a big enough place, for one thing, and for another, I don't have much furniture. I'm still debating about answering. I'm not sure I want another visit from them. Nice to know she remembered me, but not for this.

I'll shut up now.

Dia de los muertos

Today is the Mexican Day of the Dead and All Saint's Day for the Christian world, the day after Samhain, when the dead are remembered and celebrated.

Living next door to the home where Lon Chaney once lived I think of many of the thousand faces he projected on the silent screen and wonder if his son, who portrayed the very human and oft times sympathetic werewolf, lived there, too. Witches, werewolves, vampires, oh my.

It's hard to think of vampires in the bright clear light of day, but when the sun bleeds its last dying rays on the gathering clouds, staining the mountains and the light with red, the romance of the night comes close and wraps me with possibility and dreams. It isn't that I wish for a vampire to bite me on the neck and stop time for me, but rather that the spice of the night come closer and remind me of the many who have gone before and still remain like vampires of memory -- ever living, ever young, ever present.

Strangely enough, I have been thinking of my Uncle Homer who, despite his height and comforting strength and muscular presence, was never without a smile, a laugh, and a hug for all his friends and kin. He died when I was 9, just after we came back from Panama and lived in Virginia. He is still fresh in my mind and in my heart -- even when I don't think of him.

I remember all my mother's family and gathering in a state park in southern Ohio every summer for a feast of home cooked food, fattening and delectable desserts, and watermelon that stained my cheeks red because I wasn't quite so sedate and proper back in those days. Watermelon was something to dive into face first, coming up smiling through the sticky red juice and spitting black seeds onto the ground or at the nearest cousin.

The older members of the May clan gathered in the shelter house reminiscing about times gone by, people who had passed on, and exchanging family news and recipes while the kids whooped, hollered, raced, chased, and fell in puppy love. Shy glances and shyer smiles from beneath lowered lashes that pinked cheeks and glittered in the eyes of cousins who didn't know it was not possible to be infatuated or to plan weddings and families in their wildest dreams.

Those family gatherings were also the harbinger of fall and return to school and a celebration of our dead who smiled, frowned, smirked, and glowered back from faded, creased, and folded black and white pictures that looked as though cut out with pinking shears. What we remembered most was the particular special dish that person brought and how good it tasted, better than their heirs could ever make because they didn't have that Old World touch or whatever it was that made their food so special.

Within my family it is my grandma's peach cobbler and grandpa's vegetable beef soup that I remember most. That and grandpa's stash of banana flips made of sponge cake and banana flavored sugary icing that bulged out from the half moon smile inside the clear packaging. I come from a family where food was a means of communication, a gift, and a treat. Food is also a remembrance full of memory and romance and happier times when our worst problems were getting tagged playing hide and seek or not picked for Red Rover or statues.

Today may be the Day of the Dead, but for me every day is a day to remember loved ones, friends who have passed, and family. Like the romance of vampires they live forever, immortal and unchanged.

candied apples, malls, and rape

It's my fault and I admit that. But it has been a long time since I have been near a mall and I forgot the rabid look of a crazed queen next to a woman whose face looks clean and unvarnished by paint or tan, a blank canvas begging to be used. It's my fault.

Yesterday a couple of friends (I almost wrote fiends and that would have been right had I known what was going to happen) called and asked me to meet them at Wendy's on 30th and Colorado. I needed a break after 14 hours of nonstop work and even fast food sounded good when I did not have a single piece of organic fruit or a carton of Boulder Mexican Chocolate ice cream in the house. I needed to run errands and go to the co-op to stock up on fruit, vegetables, free range chicken, and 7 grain cereal, so I said yes. As I finished the last job in my queue, they called again. "How about we pick you up?" they asked, innocent voices hiding their nefarious plans.

Against my better judgment (the voice in my head screaming, "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" I said yes and sealed my doom.

"We might be a few minutes late," they said. "We have a stop to make on the way."

"No problem," I responded, thinking I'd have enough time to finish the last dictation, wash up, and change clothes before they arrived. Besides, I owed them one. I had been late two days before when going to meet them at the theater because the landlady took a little longer than usual to candle my ears. "See you there," they chorused and were gone.

I finished work, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on some clothes, finishing just in time as they rang the doorbell. Grabbing my bag, swatting away the buzzing NOOOOOOOOOOOOO in my head, I went downstairs and got into the car.

We went inside Wendy's, ordered our food, and both B & B took their food back a couple times because the counter clerk didn't understand "no tomatoes, no mayo, and extra sour cream." The guy even tried to scrape the mayo off the buns and hand them back, but B stuck to his guns and demanded new sandwiches. Obviously something more than a trip to Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory was not going to be enough to soothe their rattled nerves. They needed something more-- a LOT more.

It was as if the god/dess conspired against me yesterday. Mountain Mama's did not have another copy of the magazine with the 30-day colon cleanse diet in it and RMCF did not have candied apples. They had lots of caramel apples in various flavors with a myriad of toppings, designs, and extras, but no candied apples. Oh, well, time to take me home, I thought, but that wasn't in the cards either. B asked if one of their other stores had them and would not be dissuaded because B had never in all his young life ever had a candied apple, one of the symbols of Americana youth.

I still don't know how it is possible to go through childhood and teen years without even a taste of a candied apple at a fair, circus, or carnival or never having the sugar rush of cotton candy melting on your tongue and spangling your face with liquid crystal gems of food coloring-laden sugar. Even kids in poor families have tasted the airy spun sugar confection and felt the gluey sugar cement coating lips, tongue, teeth, fingers, and face from a candied apple, but not B.

The only RMCF that had candied apples -- the only one in the city that was also in the process of making them at that moment-- was the one at Citadel Mall. A mall. A MALL!

I don't like malls. I like to go to a store, get what I want, and get out of there as quickly as possible. The idea of mall crawling is like being caught in a George Romero zombie horror flick and knowing you're the next to die and neither brains nor brawn will keep you safe.

I forced the fear like a molten lump of bile rising into my throat back down into the pit of my stomach, clenched my sphincter muscles tight, and held on to my pentacle for safety, mumbling prayers and promises. B told B, as he broke out into a cold sweat, that the RMCF was right inside the door. We'd go in, get the candied apples, and get right back out before the mall riptide could take hold of us. It was a quick snatch and run -- or so I still naively believed.

The RMCF was right where B said it was. They had candied apples still warm and gooey ready to be sold. We ordered three and I waited impatiently, ready to run at the first sign of weakening and being carried deeper into the bowels of the mall, while the clerk put each candied apple in a separate bag, took the money, and handed us our purchases. Free! I thought as I looked hopefully at the door.

"There's Foley's," B said.

"What's Foley's?" I asked, unaware of the riptide swirling hungrily at my feet.

Too late.

"You don't know what Foley's is?" he asked. He turned to B, "She doesn't know what Foley's is," he gasped in shocked amazement at B.

While they talked over my shocking ignorance, I wandered over to the calendars keeping a sharp eye on any break in the ghostly zombie cordon gathering in the shadows to push me deeper into the mall. But they found me, linked arms with me, and drug me moaning, crying, and begging to be let go toward Foley's. Once inside it was obvious I wouldn't get free without a fight, damaging something I'd be forced to pay for, something really useful like battery operated socks or crystal faceted vials of smell water with fancy French names and even fancier price tags. But I never suspected I would be raped in front of the salespeople and that they would even stop to offer helpful tips and suggestions. Never in my wildest nightmares, but I didn't know the intoxicating, overwhelming, and biologically imperative lure of the makeup counter to queens with a blank canvas of a woman like me.

Yes, it was my fault I was makeup raped. I know that now.

From the Shiseido counter where they attacked me with brushes, sponges, mascara wands, tissues, lipsticks, glosses, and makeup to hide my natural protective coloring amid taunts and criticisms of my minimalist look, I hung onto a high stool while they assaulted me again and again and again until the fresh, clean, naked canvas of my face was obliterated behind a wall of artfully applied color and contrast. Not content with painting me, they bombed me from behind with noxious smell water and yanked, twisted, combed, and pulled my hair into something less simple and more fashionable -- or at least as fashionable as it could get without the tools of their trade and a borrowed hairpin more suitable to picking locks than holding my hair in a twisted but fashionable rope snaking up from the nape of my neck to the crown of my head.

Thinking they were done with me, I wandered dazed and confused toward what I thought was an exit, but they forced me over to the Lancome counter to continue their assault, unhappy with the first five layers of paint and gloss. Dazed and overwhelmed by color, scent, and shock I purchased a tube of lip gloss and a lip pencil, but my feint did not work. B bombed me from behind with more smell water and they drug me past jewelry arguing about class and style versus big, gaudy and glittering (the kind of jewelry my mother loves so very much and keeps in plastic bags she carries in her suitcase of a purse wherever she goes), on through purses (same arguments and offerings), and on into shoes. "What do you prefer?" they asked in chorus. "Beauty and style or comfort?"

Silly me. "Comfort," I said boldly and loudly.

"You are a Lesbian," they said, giggling. "We knew it."

"No," I argued. "I believe that a shoe should fit me not the other way around. I can have both," I said, chin out in defiance.

They tittered and giggled and pointed and laughed as I worked my way slowly and carefully, so as not to arouse their suspicions, towards the exit and closer to the doors that led out of the mall from hell. "I need to get back to work," I explained as I bolted for the door.

They were disappointed, but finally agreed to follow me, fingering the goods and trying to tempt me with shoes, purses, more makeup and whatever else was close to hand. I needed to get outside. The noxious fumes of the commingled smelly over priced waters had given me a headache and my stomach felt like it was swirling between Scylla and Charybdis.

I finally made it to the car, got inside, and stuck my head out the window breathing fresh city air while they drove me home, wondering how fast I could get up the stairs and into my apartment to the bathroom to wash the French whore stench off my neck.

When I got home, washing didn't help. I ended up having to change clothes. I left on the paint because I realize that despite their makeup rape they did do a creditable job of turning me into the BBW version of America's Top Model, even though I could barely keep my eyes open from the weight of the mascara on my lashes. I didn't take it off until just before I went to bed -- and it took two cotton patties and lots of eye makeup remover, washing twice in my homemade natural castile soap and essential oil concoction, 20 minutes behind an egg yolk mask, and another washing and application of moisturizer before I felt back to the glowing naked canvas of my every day face smiling back at me.

But you can be sure that next time I will remember not to be in the vicinity when rabid queens crazed for candied apples see a mall where the cosmetic counters wait like baited traps for clean faced females who just want to be girls in comfortable shoes.

Quick notes

Just something quick for now since there is work coming down the virtual pipeline and I need to make my pages before it all fizzles out.

Anne Rice is at it again. After her public diatribe against an Amazon.com reviewer trashed her latest Vampire Chronicles novel, Blood Canticle. Rice went over the top and down into the land of foaming, word-toting, postal workers. It may have been at this point -- or not so long afterward -- that she decided to change her life and move into the world of "doing violence to [her] career."

Even BookSlut.com noticed. What will they have to say about this latest trend?

Now we come to a new Rice sans vampires, sans guilt, sans "spiritual unease" over her evil-doing vampires to announce and confirm her return to the Catholic fold with Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, the beginning of a four-book series about Christ from the point of Christ. Kirkus Reviews said: CHRIST THE LORD
A riveting, reverent imagining of the hidden years of the child Jesus. Attacked by a vicious bully, seven-year-old Yeshua employs uncanny powers to drop his assailant onto the sand and then to bring him back to life. It's the remarkable beginning of the 26th novel by an author whose pulpy vampire chronicles hardly prepare us for a book so spiritually potent as this. . . . Joins Nikos Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ and Shusaku Endo's A Life of Jesus as one of the bolder re-tellings.
Oct 15, 2005 - Kirkus Reviews.

At least she has Kirkus, that most notoriously difficult to please of all reviewers, in her back pocket now that she has turned over a new leaf and rededicated her life to the Catholic church. Gone is the gothic black clothing and look and in its place is an earth mother who has put her multimillions, Lestat and his evil vampire friends, New Orleans, and her fans behind her for a much different future.

I wonder if Stan's death affected her at all.

Pre-turkey day cheer

Beanie sent this to me this morning and I think it's hilarious. I know Samhain/Halloween isn't here yet, but if turkeys are going to be this difficult, maybe it's time to start chasing them down NOW!

That is all. Disperse.

Views

This morning, out my window as I worked through another long night into the day, the sky flared with Easter egg streamers of purple, pink, and orange. The craggy face of the mountain looked like molten hammered copper jutting out against the deep purple and black veins of darkness. The deeply fissured bark of the squirrels' favorite tree bled reddish-gold as if on fire, despite the blackened skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky and ground. As the light became brighter, ghostly mists turned to crisped brown leaves shifting and swirling with the rising breezes. Birds darted across the pale blue like cut-out silhouettes racing for worms sluggish with cold and damp. Just another Colorado morning lost to those whose eyes are heavy with sleep and eager to snuggle deeper into the warmth of comforter and covers.

It seems as though mornings like this are my reward for nights of fractured and lost sleep while I continue to scurry for work. I've been told numerous times that it will get better, but the signs are not there. Instead I work in sporadic bursts throughout the days and nights, alienating new friends who do not understand the nature and vagaries of my life right now. At times I seem distant and depressed when in fact I am simply stressed and angling for whatever work is available. I am at the mercy of my task mistresses on the east coast who view the world in time at their disposal and are not flexible to my needs and wants. It is always so.

C'est la vie -- or so they say.

Now it's on to another day of naps and appointments and chasing work until the sky bleeds and darkens towards night before spinning around towards the dawn of another sleepless, work filled day and further alienation of those I care about. Supposedly next week ends this frustrating quest for sufficient work to keep body and soul together and find enough left over for the holidays and time to spend with friends. I guess I'll soon see.

Next week also begins my quest for the elusive novel written in one month's time for National Novel Writing Month

I wonder if my friends can hold out long enough for the road to smooth out.

It's coming...

Every year about this time I start thinking of the holidays. There's Thanksgiving, Xmas, and New Year's. My favorite holiday is Halloween/Samhain. It's that time of the year I think of costumes and masks and dressing up. When my boys were little I made their costumes, painted their faces, and took them out begging. Yes, I'm old fashioned and I still think of the little rhyme my father had us say when I was a child:

Tonight, tonight is beggar's night
Don't be stingy and give me a bite.

That little poem has a few different connotations for me these days and bite means many different things. However, the excitement and dreams of costumes, makeup, masks, and treats remains with me still. At heart I am still a little girl playing dress up and concocting costumes and making plans.

This year I am dragging a few of my friends (or they're dragging me, I'm not certain which) to a costume party on Saturday the 29th. I may have to change my plans if I don't get my new card in the mail soon, but I want to go as the Corpse Bride. A little blue yarn for hair, a lace curtain or two for bride gown and veil, a flower wreath of desiccated flowers, a little paint, some ingenuity and blue makeup and I will be the corpse of the ball. Nelo, my next door neighbor, said Michael, who used to live in her apartment when she lived in mine, wouldn't be interested in a party, but she was wrong. When they hijacked me last week to walk under and celebrate the blood moon Michael said he'd love to go. I wonder if he'll wear his new hooded cape.

Then on Monday, Halloween/Samhain night, my friends, Nelo and Michael are gathering here for a little celebration under the nearly skeletal trees in our yard. The moon will be half gone (or half there) but it will be a special night for new friends, old friends, and a celebration of the thinning of the veils between the living and the dead.

Most of the trees in the neighborhood have shed their gold leaves, turning lime green, gold, red-gold, orange gold, and finally brown and crispy as they are blown down the winds. However, there are still several trees in the tree hating orc wench's yard that are as green as spring. The ground is littered with swishing, crunching leaves that swish, whisper, and crackle when people walk down the street. The squirrels have stopped performing porn and jump, hop, and race here and there storing up food for the winter, rustling the leaves as they plunder the fall mums and asters in the flower beds. The winds are at one moment sharp and biting and other times as warm as a spring caress. The mountains outside my window are midnight blue tinged with purple majesty and the sky is a hazy cloud-filled blue whispering promises of snow that will pass us by for now. In the distance Pike's Peak is crowned with an ermine mantle like a shimmering gift of winter to come.

Speaking of gifts, I am planning a special Xmas gift for someone close to me. I want this year to be as special as he has been to me. I have to work my tail off for a couple weeks (and may continue once I get used to the money), but he will get his gift as December begins.

Off in distance like a bright mirage is the New Year and the celebration of goals met and tasks completed, some more like Sisyphus pushing his boulder endlessly up the hill than sitting sore and glowing from the exertions of a long day, but a celebration of all things past and the bright hope of a new day, a new year.

Yes, this year has been one full of disappointment and beauty, frustration and lessons mastered, but the best is yet to come.