Another Day

So, I have arrived in Whistler. It’s seriously way beautiful. It’s about a two hour drive from Vancouver and the last hour or so is spectacular. After a bend in the road, looking over a very far drop the ocean comes into view, but it’s surrounded by mountains and has big, rocky islands spotted throughout. It’s important that I keep my eyes on the windy road, however, so I haven’t taken many lengthy looks. But the snap shots that my eyes reported to my brain were very agreeable. It reminds me of Alaska and Provo Canyon kinda mixed together. Wednesday was the first drive where I took up a group of people with me to Whistler. After dropping off my bags in my room (I’ll get to that in a minute) I went back to park the bus. The way we parked—wait, back up. Where we have available to us to park is dismal. We parked in there facing away from the exit and I voiced that it might be better if we at least angled ourselves the other way to make it easier to get out. The other drivers agreed. I moved my bus and when the next driver went to move his, stuck. So we figured we’d get that one unstuck in the morning and leave the others as they were.

When we returned in the morning at 9AM, the bus I had parked moved out perfectly. Another had been parked behind the others so it moved out just fine as well. The stuck one wasn’t going anywhere, even after half an hour of chains and sand. The chains burrowed nicely into the icy dirt making a cozy dual tire cradle for the bus to rest in until the tow truck giant wrecker tow mobile came. Oh, and the other bus that I hadn’t parked the night before but would be assigned to for the day was also stuck. So we had two stuck buses and a tow truck on the way. We waited in the little driver’s lounge and drank hot chocolate and three drivers against one dispatcher discussed Mormonism with another worker. It was pleasant enough, but she kept saying, “WOW” to anything pretty significant like “uh huh, you guys are nuts.” Haha But it was a fine discussion. The guy driver next to me went for the kill, ya know, right into the Joseph Smith seeing God story and I, who am very not ashamed of that story, still thought it just wasn’t the right setting for the whole explanation, but whatever, he went for it. Sometimes, in my personal opinion, ‘missionary mode’ is better left to missionaries, and ‘simple answers until further questions’ can be for the non-full time missionary members to practice, showing mostly a good, happy, real example of gospel living. I like to keep conversations real, two-sided, open for people that I’ll be working with instead of shooting out the whole story first chance they ask. But, best of all, just ask for and follow the Spirit.

Aaaanyway, so since it took about two hours longer than expected to back out the other two buses, Merilee and I have the day “off” until 4pm. We’re doing laundry and sleeping. Well, I’m obviously not sleeping at the moment, but I will. Gonna change the laundry first. I got pretty nice rusty chain juice all over my pants this morning. We’ll see if that comes out.

Our rooms are about ten by ten by ten. Four more feet than my body’s length all around? Yeah, that might be about right. There’s a door to get in through, a six-foot tall locker, a five foot tall boxy closet of sorts, a desk attached to the wall under a window and a bunk bed. I’m on top. So, all things considered…it’s not terrible. At least we only have two people in here. I heard that Security workers have four to a room. Yow. There are individual communal showers, if that makes sense, public restroom toilet stalls, even some urinals even though our trailer is all chicks inside. And there’s free laundry! And I have to go change mine. So, this is where I’ll end so I can sleep. A la prochaine!

Week One

Well, almost one week anyway...okay actually five days. I've done mostly sitting and I've made over $700 after taxes already. :) Cool.

Okay, so to explain the first day's post...We didn't get a whole lot of "how to" information (a pattern that has continued solid throughout the trip) about our driver's log book before we started on the road. EVEN when instead of leaving at 7AM we left at 10AM, we still didn't know what we were doing and really even where we were going except following the first bus. The bus that my driving companion Merilee and I were in had a governor at 70 (meaning we couldn't go over 70 mph in case you didn't know) and soon we lost those in front that could go faster. I was quasi-sleeping in the rear when Merilee kind of panic exited and it was one of those unfortunate exits that doesn't have an on ramp to get back onto the freeway. So we eventually got back to the freeway and to the waiting drivers, but there was no intercommunication among drivers and it was a real mess. I'm not very good at mind reading. I've been trying to work on it, but it's not coming very naturally. It would come in handy about every five minutes here, because no two minds are alike, neither any two plans, two decisions, two final words.... Yaaaaa! It's somewhat frustrating. But I'm still having a good time. Optimism ruins bad situations and I'm really having a great time. I just love Merilee, she's awesome.

Okay, well so we were driving. I started driving Thursday at about 5:30 in Boise, ID. We drove for about two hours and guess where that led us? Le Grande! Cool! I called my Grandpa but he was stuck at home without Grandma and couldn't come see me (too bad I didn't know we would be stopping...I wonder if anyone knew...) but it was still fun to talk to him. Then we continued on. our log books had us logged on as "on duty" since 7AM, so when we got to Washington I had been "on duty" already almost fifteen hours so when the amaaaaaaaaaaazing weigh station guard checked our log books, his thin understanding of motor coach road rules wrapped us into parking and bringing in our paper work. He printed off some sheet of rules that were really vague and hard to understand on the fly but he relied on them like the Bible for a just punishment. Technically, however, if the right rules be read correctly, we weren't over our hours of allowed driving time for the day. See, drivers (truck or passenger vehicle) are allowed only so many hours on the clock a day and in the week. If you go over it could mean you're working too hard and could get drowsy, etc., etc. So, it's heavily tracked, regulated and punished. So I was one that got caught. The awwwwwwwwwwesome guard took us all through the process with this little "my tights are too tight" attitude, not really listening to our questions for clarification, just pointing to the omniscient piece of paper, and even covering his ears with his hands when my supervisor tried to get something cleared up. Wow. He decided he would go "easy" on us and he only fined us for going over 14 hours...which didn't make any sense to anyone. And another driver found the green book of official federal rules later and found out where the guard was wrong. So, we'll get off the hook, but we still have to plead our way out of it with a judge and stuff. Me and my noodle-nerve self were crying in front of the guard and the other drivers. I always get teary when I'm getting disciplined for something and it frustrates me even more and I lose control of my tears even more....I think it's terribly lame. But my throat ties in about eight knots if I try to suppress it and then I'll end up crying anyway, so I just let it out.

So, he finished the lame, lengthy process of giving me a lame, pricey ticket and I went back to my bus. Merilee would have to drive from there because I was off the clock until 9:20 the next morning. It was about 11 then. We drove to the next town, Kennewick, and it wasn't until 1:30 that we were checked into a motel and 2AM when we got to bed. LONG DAY.

Well anyway, here in Vancouver it's pretty cool. The first thing they warned us about was to not walk within 8-10 feet of the perimeter fences where our buses will be parked because of the heroin addicts throwing needles over the fence. They do it in anger because the Olympic committee took that port-side lot that formerly had abandoned warehouses on it that the addicts used as hide-outs of sorts, so it's mostly an act of vengeance. So, we need to watch out. I see bums EVERYWHERE and it makes me sad. Drugs are so powerful it's just not even fair....there are so few people that aren't mixed into some addiction or dependence on some substance not meant for consumption. Really sad.

Well, there's really too much to say... I'm in a hotel called the Shaughnessy and its theme is "cruise ship." We have individual rooms with a pull out couch bed, a bathroom, a sink with cupboards and drawers and a microwave, a television, a two seater table and a patio. Neat idea, sure, but a definite weird smell and sense of isolation that I really don't like. It's like a slightly souped up camper. Except this room I'm not worried about crashing into icebergs and sinking. At least that's nice...

So turns out I won't be staying in Vancouver, I'll be in the mountain town Whistler. It's the olympic venue for most skiing events and I'll get to see it tomorrow. We've just been training so far, which includes a lot of information, misinformation and re-information and sitting. And donuts. So I'll be disembarking the Shaughnessy and headed to a truck trailer with bunk beds in Whistler. Huzzah. :) The adventures seem to be endless for the 2010 Olympics.

Until next time. I have to wake up much too early tomorrow.

Day One

My very first driving infraction. $179

It's 2 am

I've had better days

Ebb and Flow

When I wake up, my eyes remain closed. They watch the lovely dream fade and return to its shimmering pool atop the stream of subconscious thought. Its departure permits again the recollection of a limping heart resting in my ribcage; heart broken, without a crutch.

The compulsory storm crawls in, swirling black clouds.

This waking moment is where decisions begin again.

Do I stay in bed, wounding further the captive heart, or get up and neglect it some more?

Blazing memory flashes brighter than original experience, with every thunderous crack of my heart.

One. . .tw—echo rumbles. Still so near.

Serious love sparks serious burning. If my singed heart were visible, to any undilated, unclouded eye, how pitifully she would plead her case. Implore, reach. But she must be disciplined, forsaken...

Serious work, serious grown up responsibilities must be done; no time to sulk. And no time to play. No time to heal.

If another heart presents itself, how anxious she is to hold and caress. But always she snaps back her reach, eager fingers slapped from stealing a taste.

No indulgence, no happiness. An unfamiliar happiness is not the same as what true happiness was. Don't absorb any hope. . . Be healed, then hope.

Hope for rain.

I cannot see. Tears? Be gone; gone like the half of heart he took with him. Unless you can form the new half I need from your salty dew, be gone. Useless. Nothing grows from dripping tears.

The other half, I kept. That half is his. He took the wrong half. That is why it longs for him: it is his. I cannot give his back and I do not want mine back. I need a new heart first.

Stop thinking. It can't do anything. Thinking is for those with nothing to do. Get up.

Arid hope. Tired thinking. No healing.

I drop out of bed like a tear. Getting up is for those who intend to go somewhere, perhaps grow something. But I flow through motions of survival.

Eat. Work. School. Life. I activate this storm and will traverse it without boots and umbrella; I will not look up, reach out, feel.

Lightning tugs at distant clouds.

One. . .two. . .three; thunder shudders at its leash.

Increasing time between memory and feeling. Maybe it's almost over.

Shine through, unmoving star. That is what you are to me: the sun. My life. I am drowning. Suitors flood in and ebb away, a tidal dance. It is making me sick; you know I never cared to dance. Until you hold me I do not care to dance.

You were my sunshine. You are the storm. I need you regardless.

Work. Eat. Homework.

Suitors. A suit is supposed to fit its wearer. One after another finds me too small, too big, too plain for his ostentatious thread count and style. Ever I was a body to be clothed, never did one body fit my form as yours.

Naked. That is how I feel.

Without your hand in mine, my fingers close. No use; their hands don't fit, just as their suits don't. Their arms too loose around me. Their lips so far from love.

It is not only you I know. It is only you I love.

Naked is how I feel. How I sleep. How I want you here. Naked, bare, exposed, vulnerable like me. Love me all the way, the way . . . the way I will always love you: naked; rain washing over.

Bed time again. Why have a bed to myself? I don't need it. A floor, a spread of fallen leaves, an altar of stones, a puddle of muddy tears: these contain more of you than does a bed.

The bed pulses with the beating of my heart. Beating. Rightfully so. Beating my sensible mind: no, heart, you don't know what you want, want, want, throb, throb, throb.

The heart beats a turbulent passion; the mind flows down a steady stream.

A flash of heart, it tugs.

The mind thunders the constant echo, "I think, I know. . .I think, I know. . ."

And I think and think and thunder and cry and hold his half of our heart as it sparks and flashes in the dark, storming soul inside my skin.

How can you not hear it! You are in my bones, my blood.

Or is it really you? No, it is my memory of you, my longing for you, an echo of my resounding passion for you. . .and only you.

Empty bed. Odorless pillow. Copious blanket. Lightning.

One. . .two. . .three. . .four. . .four and a half. . . .

Thunder's softer reply.

Blink. Heavy blink.

Blink. . .eyes open. Blink. . .one. . .two. . . Errant tear. . . Eyes close.

Breathing ebbs. Subconscious swells. Sleep flows.

Beat. . .beat. . .beat.

Happy cutting-edge twelve month session!

Ask anyone (except Kendall) and they would agree that I would be like a tortoise (and not a praying mantis) were I to compare myself to a creature that creeps the earth. Tortoise is not only a word with magnanimous spelling and awesome pronunciation, but it is also a word used to represent a creature that is slow and, according to Aesop, steady, sure to win the race. (Others may disagree and say I'm more like a giraffe for how tall I am and for the interesting tongue that I possess, but for the sake of simplicity, we'll stick with the representative slow-moving, shelled-in example for today.)

I am not really a fan of "New Year's" as a holiday... The title of this post (I put the word 'new' and then the word 'year' into my quick reference thesaurus for new and original words!) reflects my mild rebellion not to do what everyone else is doing, to post about their resolutions and what not. I am in no way scorning this practice -- au contraire! make this world a better place, one resolution at a time, please! -- it's just that I am really lame at making a list of goals and following through with them. I like to give myself good, effectual ideas and I usually pull through to complete them as they come, but a whole gob at the beginning of a year scares me, so I don't do it. I have some moderately good habits already that I know I can improve on and will. I take life as it comes, pump the future with some adequate planning, but I really just take a flexible approach that leaves room for surprises, good or unfortunate, and just keep plodding.

I have a...goal, you might say, to write a short story every month. It shouldn't be hard....well, I haven't given myself any guidelines so it will be really hard not to succeed. Is it cheating? Okay if you think so. I basically just want to finish the stories -- you know, have a beginning, middle and end -- and revise them at least once. I'm terrible at revision. That's a thing I need to accept as necessary. I'm too impatient and proud for intense revisions, but I need to humble myself and get over it.

So I'll be like a tortoise. Except my goals and I won't be racing against anyone else and their goals. We'll just keep "plodding" along, my vision and me, until...whenever. Deadlines....yeah. Lame at those, too. I usually like to work on "inner" things that just get added to my habits and don't really need deadlines or have endings. But each time I complete some planned thing or surmount some unplanned thing, I stash the little successes in my sweet shell and keep plodding ever onward. I'm tall and not all that graceful, so plodding is an apposite word for my tread, but let's hope at the eventual end of my successful race, when those waiting friends (I love you, friends, by the way, along the way, all the way) will hoist me upon their shoulders and cheer, that I'll look at least a little better than this:



Look at that face! ahaha!

Oh, and look at this real tortoise story. I love the last line: "All lame tortoises should be so lucky." I am a lame tortoise.... :)

Men of Snow

They had their snow suits, gloves and boots and they carefully etched a trail to the middle, one stepping in the prints of the other.

"Let's make snow angels," said Ellie, jumping into each step of the larger stride of her big brother's best friend.

"Lame," said big brother Jack, casting back a why-do-you-always-have-to-tag-along look at the hopping mass of pink snowsuit. "We're going to make forts, and snowmen to battle each other with snow balls!" His loud, un-lame idea tried to stretch into the silence only to freeze and drift back to the ground with the great, quiet flakes.

"Yeah, snow fight!" cried Fred pumping fists and enthusiasm into the air.

Ellie stopped jumping after them and, totally unimpressed by their war plans, trudged her own path toward the small incline at the back of the house, designing her own plans for a snow house with all its amenities, especially angels.

She didn't pay any attention to her brother and Fred as they made the forts, which was a slow process since they kept using pieces of it to test the warring distance. And then when they started making snow men she concentrated fully on the snow couch she was packing. She hummed so she couldn't hear them charging each other with all sorts of absurd crimes as they made piles of snow-packed ammunition. With her hearth and home complete she set out to surround it with angels, and didn't pay any attention to their devilish launches and counter-attacks. When her corner was complete, she was so bothered by their complete disregard for her existence that she went inside to thaw.

Inside, Mom had boiling water for hot cocoa waiting. Removing her snow clothes obediently by the door, Ellie tiptoed toward the stove. She wasn't trying to be quiet. Somehow on tip toe it's just warmer.

She gratefully took a styrofoam cup and glided to a window to watch the war. They didn't see her watch, they didn't notice the steam of her hot cocoa fogging up the glass. But that gave her an idea. She stepped gracefully over her wet clothes, avoiding any melted puddles (wet socks are the worst) and opened the door to the porch.

"Hey guys," she cooed, hopping from foot to foot. "Mom made hot choooocolate!" And just as she suspected, only food could penetrate the pretend of boy, to finally get his attention. They came running. But not before Jack tackled Fred and a white wash war of two minutes ensued.

Red-cheeked, -eared and -nosed snow boys came stomping up to the door and Ellie hopped back inside before the whole floor became an unavoidable puddle. She waited, standing with cup in hands, to see where Fred would choose to sit.

* * *

From outside, the house quickly disappeared in a curtain of flurried flakes, pouring from the frozen sky. The veiled sun was soon setting and the boys' snowball battle was adjourned to a later time.

Midnight materialized out of minutes and pushed the clouds away and breathed a clear, starry sigh over the house. The snowmen, three in total, shook their powdered heads and shrugged their frosted shoulders.

"Where am I?" Said the one with the scarf, whose eyes had been forgotten.

"Who are you?" Said the one with eyes of stone.

"I. . .I'm" he faltered. "I don't know. How can I know?"

Stone stared. "I don't know."

"If I could see you I would know who I am not." added Scarf vacantly

"Well, I'm a soldier." Said the third, looking down to see a toy gun halter around his middle.

"Soldier," Stone began, "be on your guard; there appears to have been a battle here recently."

"What happened?" asked Scarf. "Tell me, I can't see."

Stone swiveled at his waist to register a 360 degree inspection. "I see two strongholds . . . one square, one slightly rounded. Both seem to have been abandoned. It must have taken place much longer in the past than I suspected. . ."

"Well," observed the soldier. "I think we's actually was here when the battle was goin' on."

"What? How is that possible? I would have seen something."

"I would have heard something, no doubt," said Scarf absently.

"And I woulda finally seen some action!" The soldier stuck his twig arms into the sky.

"Stay focused, soldier. You said you think we were already here. Explain yourself," ordered Stone.

"Oh, right. Dude, you've got some of those ammunition balls . . on you . . ." He ended cautiously.

Stone looked down and saw on his body what he had seen on the ground.

"I see," he said perturbedly. "Did you think maybe I just have a rough figure?"

"I believe that," offered Scarf. "Besides, battles involve Big Bangs, anyway, which I never heard, in all my time listening, never heard." His theoretical mumbling continued, ignored by the other two much like his very presence.

A tree above them shivered and burdened boughs dropped snowy shells on the unsuspecting targets below.

Looking up now for the first time, Stone and the soldier cried out and promptly trundled their round forms out of harm's way.

"What, what's happening?" yawned Scarf until snow fell on him and interrupted his stretch. He clutched his arms in around his middle.

After the flurry dissolved, the other two looked at him. "Is ya'okay?" asked the soldier.

"What was that stuff?" he shook his top and patted his middle, then wiggled at his bottom.

"No idea," said Stone, inspecting the ground and then the heavens again. "It came from above, all of a sudden, no warning, apparently with no intended aim since it did you no harm."

The soldier patrolled between the two forts now, his curiosity and drive for warfare heightened. Stone let his head trace the soldier's search back and forth.

Scarf, still patting his middle, tilted his round head. "That stuff, the stuff that came from above just now. I think I'm made of it."

The others froze.

There was a long, uncertain silence.

"Scarf," Stone started, but stopped again, confused.

"Yes?" Scarf tuned his head to the sound of Stone's voice.

"The stuff that just fell on you," said the soldier delicately, "is the stuff that these here war balls is made of."

"You mean to say that I am made of the same stuff that is used for war?" Scarf asked sadly. "Do you think that means I'm dangerous? I can't imagine myself as being dangerous."

"I don't think he meant to say you are made for war, and I highly doubt you could present any real threat to anything," said Stone. "But if you are made of the stuff, then so are we, since we're all the same."

"Oh!" Scarf's face shined like the moon. "You and I are the same? You mean -- I mean, we're the same?"

"Yes, it appears so." Stone puzzled, looking at all the pieces of the scenery around him. "The forts, the battle, even ourselves . . . all made of the same white stuff. How . . . interesting."

"That don't make sense to me." The soldier resumed his patrolling.

Stone stared thoughtfully at the sky.

"Well, wait just a minute and think about it," Scarf continued. "It does make sense. Why should any of us be here and be made differently? And why shouldn't everything else also be made of the same stuff. If it can be used for so many different things then it must be some sort of . . . omnipresent formula or solution to all our problems."

"Omni-wha?" tried the soldier, bending over one of the forts.

"Omnipresent. It means present everywhere." Stone stared distractedly at the stars. "You know, the specks of light up there seem to be weakening in brightness. There is a slight purplish hue there behind these trees."

Now it was Scarf's turn. "A hue? No idea what that could be."

"It's a color. Oh." Seeing Scarfs blank face --amazing what can still be read from a face without eyes-- he realized the impossibility of explaining color. "Well, it's as if the sky is melting from . . . small to wide, if that makes more sense."

"You're right," said the soldier. "Tha's a great way to der-scribe it."

Scarf still hadn't said anything. "What do you suppose that means, Stone?"

"Does everything have to mean something?" Stone sighed.

"Well, maybe one day when you can't see you will understand that a thing must have meaning to be seen completely."

"You think so, huh?" Stone mused. Not waiting for a response he continued, "Well I think it means the sky is changing, that's what it means."

"Well, the sky can't change and everything else stay the same," said Scarf.

"Why on earth not?" said Stone, growing tired of the triple-tiered philosophizing mound of white.

"If you say that's where the white stuff comes from, the stuff from which we are made, well if the location it comes from changes, then logically what comes from it will change, or it will cause changes. It follows. Logic."

"Logic?" asked the soldier. "Logic won't be changin' anything. Think all ya want, Scarfy boy, but it won't change nothing."

"You're right, but at least I won't be surprised when the changes come." Scarf folded his branch arms in front of him and tilted his nose to the sky.

"Except that you won't see them coming. Simply their arrival will surprise you," Stone flung his words impatiently.

"Well, if you'd be kind enough to let me know if I become endangered, I'd be much obliged." He turned away from the direction of the sound of Stone.

"Looky now," the soldier exclaimed. "The whole sky is spreadin' across wi'yella!"

The trees at the far end of the adjacent field formed clearly into view and the whole world around them came slowly into focus.

"Everything seems to be changing now," said Stone. "I can see so clearly now. Things I never saw before, never knew were around us." He waddled back to the spot he first found himself in, eager for familiarity. The soldier did the same. Scarf hadn't moved from his place.

"What did I tell you?" he turned back to face them, pleased that his faith was now supported by reality.

They were all silent as the sky lit up. The first beams of sunlight hit the distant trees and four earthy eyes watched the bright line advance toward them. As the sunlight slid down the roof of the house, Stone and the soldier stared intently.

"Does anyone else feel . . . warm?" Scarf was ignored.

"What's happening, my friends?" asked Scarf concerned. "You have been quiet so long."

"Oh, sorry Scarf." Stone turned his head a bit, but kept his eyes on the house. "There has been --uh-- a silent wind of brightness advancing steadily across the ground. Well, we also saw a strange moving box, it was yellow --I'm sorry I cannot describe that to you-- and it stopped a moment and started flashing red. After that moved out of sight is when this insensible wind really dropped down, slipping down those trees, gliding across that white field and now it is advancing down this large stronghold so close to us, but that we hadn't seen before because of the darkness--"

"Darkness?" puzzled Scarf.

"Dah." Stone really didn't feel like explaining. "Well, I guess you could say the sky around us had been very far away and now it has come much closer, now that this wind has blown in. And you do understand I am not referring to an actual wind, right? I mean that this light is the wind, and it is pushing away the darkness."

"Yes, I think I can imagine it a little. But I'm more concerned perhaps what this wind is doing to me now. Do you not feel very warm?"

"I think I does," said the soldier. "But it's prolly nothin' don't you worry."

Stone was inspecting the sunlit roof. Its border was dropping tiny, glimmering pieces of something to the ground. Already there were some large, clear spikes clinging to the edge. He felt a sort of tingle all over his body.

"Our world is getting warmer. And fast." He said suddenly. "We need to do something, or this stuff we're made of is going to start looking like that." He pointed and though both of the other two looked, only the soldier saw the icicles. The panic, however, was much more noted by the other.

"Like what? What can we do?" Scarf said. "What can I do?"

Stone turned and looked at the tall trees hanging over them, combing the sunlight and blocking the men from a direct hit. He calculated that if the line kept advancing as it was, however, that they would soon be exposed to a solid stream of melting rays. His Maple shoulders drooped.

"Nothing," he conceded. "We are going to melt. Our lives will come to an end in a few short hours."

The soldier's mouth gaped. He fingered his useless gun. "Damn," he surrendered.

"Really, there's nothing we can do? We just . . . got here. We have to leave already?"

Stone robotically resumed the exact position he had originally found himself in and braced himself for the end. It really did seem unfair somehow. Hardly figure out who you are and then realize that whoever it was is soon to be terminated, game over. He felt he had nothing more to say.

"Well, I say we at leas' try teh fight it!" said the soldier, retaliating. He picked up a prepared snow ball and threw it at Stone's head. It stuck out like a teddy bear ear on one side.

"What the--?" Stone turned to the soldier. "Are you insane? It's not my fault we're going to melt! You're not helping by throwing those useless balls at me, you idiot!" But still he also stooped down and launched a ball at the soldier. The soldier tried moving, but it struck him in his bottom rear. Bunny tail.

"See how it feels?" said Stone. "Now knock it off. Let me melt in peace."

The soldier slumped. "It's so warm," he echoed.

"It was nice knowing you boys," said Scarf with a faltering voice. The connection of his top and middle where the scarf was wound seemed especially warm. His twiggy fingers tugged at it. "I guess one nice thing about never having seen anything is that I won't miss anything. But I believe we weren't made for nothing. There will be something else, another yime. That's something I see without eyes." His voice kind of gurgled. Stone had a bad feeling about that.

A few moments of silence later, Scarf's head slowly started sliding to the side. Stone looked away and heard a hollow thud a minute later.

"Agh," the soldier cringed. "Just the scarf left." He too looked away. The first casualty.

"Nothing we can do." Stone repeated. "Nothing we can do!" he shouted it in the air as if to etch an eulogy into the sky.

* * *

After the school bus dropped Jack and Ellie off at home, they threw on their gloves and boots and charged to the back yard. Jack jumped excitedly down the stairs before he realized, then stopped short.

"Oh. Look how much they melted! Dang!"

Ellie, still on the porch balcony looked over at her melted house, too. "Oh well. It's not like you could have done anything anyway. Just wait until it snows again, make some more."

Jack was already kicking the remains of the snowy corpses with his camouflage boots and stomping down the snow forts.

Ellie shook her head and walked back inside where it was warm. "Men."



see also this link

No One, eh?

Right now the disposal of my mind is backed up, slowly regurgitating the disposable fragments of my day back into view. I don't have anything else to do so I'm staring at each thing I thought I could throw away today, and now I will make a garbage creation, a finite masterpiece, a forgettable symphony melted into a frosted window with the warm tip of my finger.

Except...words make a thing without end.

Perhaps you, stedfast reader, have noticed that I don't swear in my writings. At least I haven't here on my blog except for maybe once or twice, and that was the word ass, which beastfully interpreted, is no swear at all. Right now I think I have a special lack of sympathetic emotion that one might have when one desires to swear. But I'm not going to. There are more clever words to employ for now. Get to work, then.

Anonymous commented on my last post. He addressed me with "hey lady", which for obvious reasons is applicable, but, coming from an anonymous sender, is unacceptable.

"No one reads your blog."

Strike two. And in my game you're out. Don't bury your talentless corpse under anonymity so you feel free to extend a hand of flattery only to slap unobservant criticism in my face.

Your anonymity bores me.

Dull. That's a word to describe my humor at present. Not because I'm uninteresting. Not so. Clearly.

Dull because I already fell from the uncaring branches of reality, to a hard, failing, infertile ground. And when I got up and left that place, it is dull, unimaginative and tasteless now to be presented with a twig and a sack of dirt. Been. Done.

What? I stopped feeling when I fell. I'm not going to return to a grave whose inhabitant left me once already. You can bring the girl to the grave, but you can't engrave the girl any deeper. That doesn't make sense really. See, I'm trying to be more poetic than these feelings deserve.

Do you remember the first lie you were told? I just thought that. I don't remember. I doubt anyone can. I remember the latest lie I was told. And why do they call it "my word"? As in, "you have my word" or "I give you my word"? You don't have words. No one has words.

No one reads my blog. Surely No one is a fan of words then.

If I promised you my word, you would get my word. If I give it to you, it becomes yours and you have it. Sooner than later it would become a lie because you would still think it was mine, and you would think it was obligated to do something for you, but you forget: it's yours now. I am not compelled.

Dull becomes me. What does that mean? I don't even know. I'm not editing this line even when I wanted to from the start. I want to delete it entirely. It doesn't deserve eternity.

"no vacancy in an empty heart motel." That line regurgitated from my journal. That's where I write from my pure self. Where I'm writing from now? That part that knows No one will read these words.

Oh, here's a big piece resurrecting from the disposal grave.

"We're shutting this motel down, Lady."
"Wait, why? Every room is open? Why close a motel that is so . . . open?"
"Because No one comes here, that's why."
"Actually, No one is here! No one is my friend. I'll take you to his room. Suivez-moi."
"..."
"'Follow me.'"
Leader, follower.
knock-nuh-knock
"No one, hey, it's Lady."
Nothing.
"Come on, man. The boss man is here. He's going to shut us down because he thinks No one stays here, which when I told him I knew No one was, he looked confused, and now we're both confused I think, but if you come out, he will see indeed that No one is staying here and we can both stay. Right, boss man?"
"Wrong. This is ridiculous, Lady. I think you may have lost your mind. No one is in there."
"...?"
"No one. Is in. There."
"That's what I'm telling you. No one is in there. I know him! He reads my blog!"
"That's it."
Boss man sashays away, Lady loiters, No one comes out of the room.

(because sashay is a cool word)

So now, it's over. You've experienced it. Except, it didn't do anything to you because it wasn't sharp, neither piercing. It won't do anything for you, don't expect it, because these are no longer my words.

Sorry if you were thirsty since all I did just now was open the soda right in front of you and dispose the pop tab into your palm. Which you shall not use to slap with.

And now I am flipping the switch and dumping the soda down the digesting disposal; it needs liquid to drain.

Keep the tab. That's what I really want to give you. Really want it. For you.

Pointless now that the can is open. Dull.

A Christmas Day

I didn't dream of a Silly String Christmas, but I got one....

I had a super fun day. We made a yummy breakfast and then went to the movies, saw Sherlock Holmes which was simply awesome, and when lunch/dinner was all prepared and in the oven we opened presents. Two-year-old Caleb did most of the ripping of everyone's wrapping and it was fun to make a merry mess with family. Dinner was soon mostly on the table and we played "Lefty Righty" which involved brown paper sacks and a story and every time mom the narrator said left or right, we passed the sacks left or right, respectively. Caleb was in the middle and grabbed and passed sacks at random very excitedly. When the story was over we got to open the sack we ended up with. Among other things, each sack contained a can of silly string. Mine was actually the first open as I tried to help Caleb spray some people with it. But then his mother, Autumn, unleashed the entire contents of her can and everyone was quick to join in and if not protect themselves, thoroughly revenge themselves. I was strung pretty, well, silly-ly, wouldn't you say? Right. Then we had dinner. Yum! The sweet potatoes had had some buttermilk coconut syrup added to them instead of just brown sugar and butter. Wow so so good! I made a butternut squash sweet casserole that was super good too. Then there was the usual ham, turkey, scalloped potatoes and rolls. And I helped everyone wash it down with egg nog cheesecake. So a lovely, full day. I slept well. I feel like sleeping well again tonight. I love Christmas break.

Sure Win

You won't trust anyone.
Me,
as long as you kept your heart out of it,
you could whole-heartedly trust.
I'd carve a statue of you, made of words, for the world to ever esteem you, and the monument would crumble before your trust in me could ever fall to pieces.
And words cannot crumble.
And I won't fall to pieces.
I won't fall to pieces.
So
Nothing is more securely placed in me than trust.
The heart is nothing if not everything.
Which is why I tell you, remove first the heart.
Because then
I won't let you down;
I can't if I'm always above you, never beside you.

See, I trust myself about as much as you love yourself, or hate yourself, depending on which is more endless in depth.

ReRotation

One Sunday, toward the end of June,
the world stopped spinning.

In Jerusalem, high noon stretched down;
tassels of sun held duties dangling
suspended in time
paused.

In New York where no one was sleeping
the tall buildings appeared to sway
and people held on to poles,
parking meters, each other -- perfect strangers.

The stars down under seemed to pitch
and the kiwis rolled and bounced
around like forgotten fruit
in the back of a truck.

And the halt made everyone's stomach
and eyes and heart and brain
start spinning within
whether moving, whether still.

But then slowly, oh so slowly
(no one had ever noticed how slowly),
the world began to spin again
from setting sun to rising sun
from east to west to west to east,
and looking down the clocks began
to twitch and stutter backwards.
Each right turn turned to the left
and left turns wheeled around again
and Earth seemed so confused that
cyclones twisted back from Texas
and twisters wound back to the sky
and rivers crept a mirrored course
of the one they'd run before.

Right and left of me, people thought
aloud, "So will I go to work tomorrow
Or will it be Saturday?"
Important riddle.

But little confused was I when I
felt my heart beat join the wobble.
It was all the same
sound and pulse and rhythm
of the moment when
you told me it was over.

My world turned west to east that day.

Earth's heart, her core, must have
this day
been broken down the middle.


(hmm, what do you think of this one?)