Author: approximately

Thanks for the joy that you’re given me
I want you to know I believe in your song
And rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You’ve helped me along
Making me strong

I miss everything about these.

I was walking in the park today when I spotted a baby squirrel trotting along the edges of the path. Naturally, I had to observe. So I stopped in my tracks, and the little thing came right up to me. Squirrels in the park aren’t bashful because they live amidst luxury. I mean think about it. They frolic in the trees surrounded by few roads (which is in my book their number one cause of death, judging by how many squirrel pancakes I’ve seen around these parts) and are fed by the many young, old, and just plain weird, crazy squirrelpeople of the park — the ones that carry around bread crumbs and nuts. You know who you are.

This little munchkin didn’t stop there, oh no! I’ve been told in the past (by my brother, namely) that I’m a “sturdy” girl. I won’t deny this, I’ve got a little meat on me; I never figured it would be enough to be mistaken for a tree trunk. Junior crawled atop my foot and straight up my leg! As soon as he reached my knee I jolted, and shook him off. Never know what those things are carrying — never know.

All this got me paranoid, pondering, fearful and I suddenly began noticing all squirrels. Like a fever. There was one with a scraggly tail, a fat one, a black one, a long, lean one. Which got me wondering: What goes on in squirrels’ lives? What?

Does Mo Scraggly snort cocaine in the Poison Ivy? Meanwhile, Fatty’s high up in the trees eating fudge stripes and Doritos, Momma squirrel’s yelling about Jr’s grades — which is why he ran away to me in the first place. Do they get their tails done — cut, shampooed, styled, etc. — at the Squalon? Shop for groceries along the river, go camping, play poker, fly kites, square dance? What. Goes. On.

Something tells me these thoughts are not worth my wondering…

1927: Charles Lindbergh departed from Roosevelt Field in Long Island in the Spirit of St. Louis, Paris-bound on the first non-stop solo trans Atlantic flight. Well done, Charles.

Morning in Minot, trying to regroup and track where I’m at. Barely sunrise and I’ve managed to figure out that I like mornings and should make them a part of my day. Years past I’ve lived watching the hour signs, reading the closing time. It’s time to watch for the opening.

The woman next to me has had wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy too much coffee. She hasn’t taken a breath yet. “I get up Sunday morning and I read it, and Joe’s up as well and I say ‘No, you can’t have it.’ And I read it. And when I’m done I say, there you can have it. You can have that section, and that section…She’s not charging you for that, is she? But, so when it comes to the house now, yesterday and the day before Monday I called the kitchen designer and said can you meet me at 1:00 because I had to meet the electrician got there at a quarter to two, didn’t even get to talk to the electrician — well Joe did — yadda yadda so Monday I was up posting no trespassing signs and I had to go match this to the pillars, I’ve just been running around doing things at the house arranging when the fireplaces are going to get in…I don’t have time anymore!!!!!….and…and…AND before that I also have to figure out appliances for the kitchen and the ventiliation and I have to figure out!! I have like a week and it was it was it was…and she’d said to me, OH FUNNY I should have brought the pictures and stuff. It was BAD. I had some idea of what the design would be and I sat down with her. See here’s the kitchen and here’s this wall and the big wall here and the fireplace. Here’s the back of the house that overlooks the trestle, and here’s the front of the house. Then there’s a staircase here and the dining room — YOU’LL SEE IT WHEN I GIVE YOU A TOUR. I can’t do it this time because I have to do something for Joe. See it wraps around like this. But at the island I have three seats here and she gave me a lot better ideas on placement. She says to me she says…OH SHE WAS EXCELLENT. And the ice maker was $800. I said ‘We don’t need that much ice…'”

Barf.

It wasn’t spoken — no — but implied that, in the case that we might go crazy, feel underrated, unwanted, or overanaylze life and it’s many maniacal, satirical, clamouring and unjustified ways…

…we’d have each other. We’d always have each other.

LIBERAL, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE. Liberal, with your piercings, your colors, your free thoughts. You stay out late and run the town, filling your head with all sorts of crazy, liberal ideas. And what…what are you wearing?! Are those clothes, or are you dressed in a statement? I don’t get it. You’re wild.

THESE DAYS ALWAYS GET ME. Sucked into the cyclone of a disheveled space, I find myself sitting on the floor untangling knots in the necklaces I wore during the 8th grade.

A crisis closet, six tons of never-been-worns, five bags for giveaway, one for my sister. The magazine scraps I saved back in Grade 13, finally in the trash. Jewelry and power cords upon notes from guys I dated six years ago. What is this stuff? And why in Sam Hill did I keep this nonsense around for so long?

My bed’s made at least but it doesn’t make a difference; my room’s still a nightmare.

Blargh, I tell you. Blargh.

DAD MUST LOVE THOSE SOUNDS, each night from the love seat before the giant windows of the sun room, of kitchen pans clanging and closing drawers as a metal spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot. Six-thirty rolls around and it’s clockwork, feet kicked cross-legged and hanging over the leather arm, arms crossed, chin up, eyes closed. Dreaming, probably, of pork chops and applesauce and Tracy’s macaroni-and-whatever.

“Honey. Honey. Dinner’s ready.” A startled awaking, he hurries to his feet and makes a loop, scanning the feast, around the table to his chair.

BlessusohLordforthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromthybountythrough
ChristourLordamen.

Pass the butter, the water, the main course. He must wonder of these in the shop, standing outside that giant blue garage door and staring away to the cars flying down Burdick. One hand on his hip and the other rested at his side, foot atop foot with a bent knee, then shift his weight, and again. He’d step to his pickup truck, the one I always thought too large for him, and he’d lean and drift again. This was his smoke break, cigaretteless; a getaway for thoughts. He’d think of what car he’d love to buy but no matter, he loves that ’88 Tercel to bits. Four wheel drive and a manual dream — whoooo-wheeee, like youth! Make an offer on it, he’d say, knowing full well it wasn’t for sale, it would never be for sale. It made his life too interesting…

And once his plate was clean, and he after he finishes the Daily, National Geographic, Newsweek — the diverge rests between the basement sofa, resuming rested position, feet-kicked-cross-legged, and the garage with his half-solved curbside collection, gadgets, and the waves of thirteen-ninety KRRZ radio that steamed from that curious, curious-shaped radio thing of his.

Dad must love those sounds.

Annnnnnnd….I can’t sleep.