Category: Uncategorized

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…

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.