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If you have not the time to watch the video, at least—please—read the lyrics.

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, ‘n’ how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, ‘n’ how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, ‘n’ how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, ‘n’ how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, ‘n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ‘n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

She’d poked her head in the door about ten minutes prior to see if I was awake. I stared and glared back, I’m sure, because I’d been awaken by the sound of marimbas on my alarm and interrupted a fabulous dream in which I had been engaging in a great hug, and touched the shoulders and the hands and lips and hair of the receiver, and it was beautiful. “You found me,” I said, “you found me! How did you find me?” I cannot recall the vague response, though I can remember not much caring either. He was there.

And dear Jesus, there was a man in church that looked like Tim Doyle, old Doyle that used to come up to the Inn and harp on all of the women in his charmed, sleek ways. I’d seen Doyle on Broadway one afternoon in Fargo, and how couldn’t I; a rotund man riding an old bicycle, gap-toothed grin on his chubby face and a mop of salt and pepper on his head. Doyle was practically a cartoon. And I recall being concerned because Doyle the old railroad man had so many years of Western Melts and strong coffee from a caked mug in him, it was a wonder how he stayed alive. Old Doyle, he was generally inertialess.

Yesterday,
I was dreamweaver,
But now I’m reborn,

Our carts began overflowing with the usual seasonal beauty: giant, puffy red geraniums, marigolds, and the petunias that I never much cared for and only saw the beauty of in Mom’s hands. I told her she should name her next dog Petunia and she didn’t flinch. The Dahlias on the end cap caught my eye with their peach and pink blossoms and I imagined them fine wedding decor, or as several stems in a simple vase on a table at a home that I’d once own, once someday.

I was the walrus,
But now I’m John,
And so dear friends,

A French press on a Saturday night was, of all things, the end cap of a feeling. It tasted just like England and the freedom I used to have, from familiarity and comfort. The cappuccinos that I sipped while mingling on North Parade Avenue were my anthem, gone now and a thousand or so minutes away. They tell me I’ll want to go back soon, and I do; but not before I find myself here, like I did there. Not too soon, but someday soon. Thus begins, once again, a new chapter.

You just have to carry on.

day of rest
Originally uploaded by approximatelyes

I never noticed how nice the small light from my bedroom window is — probably because I’m always too sleepy to appreciate it. I’m very sleepy right now but plan to footslog through this lovely day.

It’s hard to believe I’ve been home for nearly three weeks, unreal actually. i have a list of things that, ideally, I’d love to accomplish. Today I dusted off my camera, after two months of idleness. I’m going to take photographs again.

There’s an airline plane
Flies to heaven everyday
Past the pearly gates

You can get away to heaven
On this aeroplane
Just bow your head and pray

But you will surely know
When to the airport go
To leave this world behind

You can hold your head and pray
It’s the only earthly way
You can fly to heaven on time
Fly to heaven on time

Your ticket you obtain
On this heavenly airline plane
You leave your sins behind

Them’s got ears, let them hear
Them’s got eyes, let them see
Turn your eyes to the lord of the skies

Take that airline plane
It’ll take you home again
To your home behind the skies…

Happy 74th in the sky to Grandpa Ed, love and strength whom I continue to call to mind each day!

I was driving past McDonald’s today and glanced up at the sign see a line of text that I hadn’t noticed before: Billions and Billions Served, it said below the monstrous ‘M’. The sheer thought of “billions and billions” cramming Big Macs and Cokes into their guts is disturbing, granted it didn’t happen all at once (in somewhat of a Big Mac Bang), unsettling nonetheless.

I know I know—McDonald’s is a really stretched-out, overworked and reworked, deep-fried and breaded topic that’s been flipped and abused, namely since 2004’s Super Size Me, kicked down, beaten up then stuffed into Happy Meal boxes and paper bags and served to “billions and billions” around the world. If there is one thing that you cannot escape traveling the world, it’s McDonald’s. I can recall seeing at least eight in every country I visited, always busy with famished tourists and locals. While in Amsterdam I took the liberty late one evening to visit the Golden Arches and indulge in a McFlurry for some ridiculous €1.83—which really made me wonder, for so cheap, what the H they really put in there.

Later on during my drive I was stopped at a light near a McDonald’s billboard. Gee whiz, I thought, I can’t escape this place. The board was fairly sparse save a gi-gan-tic burger, which in real life must have stood eight inches tall but the scale of the billboard made it 10 feet, with a three-foot thick beef patty. There were only a few simple words on the board, something like “Beefy. Tasty.” The burger was glistening. I felt sick.

So why do feel the need to prattle on about Mickey D’s? It’s not about them, but more about what’s around in general. Junk everywhere, and invitations to junk. I flipped over a receipt to look at the coupons on the back and found bargains for the China buffet: Buy One Buffet at Regular Price, Get the Second Free. A sudden flashback of the last restaurant I worked at comes to mind, visions of people gorging themselves with plates and plates of fried noodles. It took me working there to realize how destructive and disgusting this is—yeah, I used to do it, too.

I’ve never been so aware of what I consume as I am now. During my first semesters of college I’d go to the grocery store and load my cart with the cheapest food I could find, loaves of white bread, sugary cereals and granola bars—things I thought were healthy. Oh, and Oreos. I love Oreos, I will always love Oreos, they will always be a staple in my diet; if only ‘Double Stuf’ didn’t translate to ‘Once on the lips, twice on the hips.’ Eventually I learned that 98 percent of what I was filling my body with over the years was high fructose corn syrup, sodium, enriched bleached flour, and trans fat. I imagined my organs engaging in a civil war inside of me: my stomach was ticked off that it was full of crap, swindled into thinking it was getting fiber and nutrients, while the HFCS surged forth, telling it to keep eating. And the poor Our Family canned veggies couldn’t get in a word edgewise because they’re suffocating in salt and never stood a chance at being liked by the ol’ tum, or my kidneys for that matter. Agh! Egads! Are you trying to hurt me? And must you really smother that in cheese?

More conscience efforts are being made, and I’ve scrapped a lot of the things that make me feel deep-fried. I learned that if I feel like a jumbo Oatmeal Creme Pie after I eat one, it’s probably my body telling me it hates me. Alas, I’m getting better at this. One of my new secret favorite things to do is shop for fresh produce. I know saying this has automatically aged me 20 years and made me 10 parts more lame, but really. Too often in the past I’d skip straight to the freezer aisles and forget where the good, real stuff was: peppers, zucchinis, tomatoes, onions and herbs, fruits and beans. I’m quite new to the practice and have still to really get into it—right now it’s overwhelming, and quite scary—but with time I hope to learn to gloriously meld ingredients…fresh ingredients. Then I can truly make something that’s “Tasty.”

George Harrison + Pattie Boyd on their honeymoon, 1966.

I’m currently reading “Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me” by Pattie Boyd, where she leaks her escapades of muse-dom with two rock superstars. I can’t put the book down. There’s a segment where she talks about going on a holiday with George to Tahiti, disguising themselves throughout airports and laughing all day and night amidst clear waters and white beaches. What I would not give for a time like that…!

In a way the book as made me feel sympathy toward the Beatles, who were supersoaked in fame yet endured zero privacy. Can you imagine finding fans that had snuck into your house, or notice that your belongings have mysteriously disappeared into the hands of obsessive followers?

Fame, I tell you what.

I’ve been walking in the same way as I did
Missing out the cracks in the pavement
And tutting my heel and strutting my feet
“Is there anything I can do for you dear? Is there anyone I can call?”
“No and thank you, please Madam. I ain’t lost, just wandering.”

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…