The Rising and the Setting

The Vix and I are burning the candle late at the office this evening; together, we watch the sun melt into an ochre puddle behind the pines.  I whisper a little prayer of gratefulness to The Giver each time I realize how fortunate I am indeed to be employed within eyeshot of such beauty. 

My fortunes have turned in my favor for working here, for I've previously found myself employed within the confines of the structural equivalent of a lightless dungeon.  I would rather pull my small toenails off with children's safety scissors than repeat such an experience.  Humans need some connection to the wheel of the seasons, and to the cycles of natural light and shadow. 

Man-made beauty is awe-inspiring, I think, but God-beauty is essential.

The Ragamuffin Library

Due to my habits and how I spend most of my time in my home, you would think my most favorite room in our humble dwelling is the bathroom.... but not so.  It's the Ragamuffin Library. 

Every inanimate creature, estate sale book and antique instrument I decide is worth hording all live here.  Nevermore, my wooden raven, lives atop the sushine yellow bookcase, which previously stood in residence as the basement canning supply cabinet.  A date with bleach and a rag, and it was good as new....all for the price of a little tap water and a rag.  Its twin, the mint green bookcase, is a little bit more on the tough-love side of reclaimed.  Upon our first meeting, I discovered blackberry preserves that long ago became gritty blackberry wine within its cobwebby back corners.  Given that the previous owners of the house were also card-carrying Baptists, I doubt that was their original intent.      

I've planned the perfect date night with my Ragamuffin Library tonight.  When I get home from my labors and appointments, I plan to work late into the night, lighting shadows and scraping off dust with the carosene lamp flicker keeping time with my wood-and-cloth olde tyme radio.

The Best Kind of News

Guess what, boys and squirrels!  The Queen of Cakes has a lil cupcake in the oven!  My frien is pregnant!  WOOT!  Bring on the maternity fashion!

Dodging Miss Daphne

Now that the weather's turned popcicle-y, my eyes fly open automatically at 5:40 a.m. and I trudge down the hallway to the spare room and do my morning workout. The morning walk thing seems a bit ridiculous now that I have to bind my body up like Tutankamun to keep all that valuable toastiness in.  So, Zumba and cruches it is!

I have to admit the cheeky little Zumba leader fellow gets on my last flaming nerve before sunrise, but by the time I get my heart thumping and my adrenaline flowing, I begin to think the little Columbian chipmunk is pretty cute.  Then I spend the rest of the workout envying all the great whippy hair the lead workout model has. 

The last bit of my routine in the morning involves a bit of cat butt dodging.  I go into the library, turn on my old-timey wood-and-mesh radio to something peppy, stake out a spot on the oversized rug and go to town on my abs.  At some point in my routine, my cat Miss Daphne beats her little biscuit head on the door sufficient to open it a crack and sneak in to disturb me.  As I'm laying in the floor in various states of pretzelhood, she never fails to flick her tail in my face or rub against my shoulder.  She's a bother, for sure, but I'm so soft toward a creature that wants nothing more than lay beside me and soak up my attention.  This occasionally results in the odd supersonic situp, but hey, when you love somebody, you make sacrifices. 

That Dadblasted Seaweed Song

A few weeks ago following Wednesday evening church service, Duckie and I lingered in the parking lot (as Baptists often do) to discuss our mutual obsession with un-Top 40 music.  Bopping from topic to topic -- Eric Whitacre, Il Divo, The Muppets -- we discovered that we shared a passion for Celtic music. 

"Have you ever heard Dulaman?" he asked, completely unaware that I had been blasting it in my Mazda every morning like a pretentious college kid who blows out his Bose speakers listening to Ben Folds.  Wwwwwow, I'm a dweeb. 

He then proceeded to tell me that he was in posession of a copy of the choral sheet music for the song, complete with pronunciation guide and translation.  He brought it to me the next week, wearing his biggest kid grin like he'd just made his first peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.  I was moved.  Share your music with me, and I'm your golden retriever for life.

The stupid song is about seaweed. 

Here I was taking cues from the rousing accompaniment and the heart-hammering chants, thinking that the piece was the record of some epic battle or raging love affair.  Nerp.  Seaweed.

"Dúlamán na binne buí, dúlamán Gaelach

Dúlamán na farraige, b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn"

Which translates:

"Seaweed from the yellow cliff, Irish seaweed

Seaweed from the ocean, the best in all of Ireland"

 

Which begs the obvious question.....  Irish sushi?

Best. Early. Present. Like, EVER.

So, the Queen of Cakes brought me the most bestest Black Friday prize today: a brand-spanky-new DVD Leap Year!  Eek eek, I love you, CuppyCakes! 

I heart this movie because holding it in my hand is like owning everything charming I've ever imagined Ireland to be.  Heck, it's like owning a permenant Irish passport I can keep under my bed like a picture of David Cassidy .  Not to mention that the delicious Matthew Goode who steals every scene he's in with his fiddle-dee-dee, chihuahua-on-yer-duvet wit and those smashing soulful eyes of his.  Om nom nom nom.

Turkey Day with Bob Cox

After much chewing, chatting and tooth-picking, I can reflect upon the past twenty-four hours fondly and call it a drowsing-yet-satisfying success. 

Phrase of the day:  "DON'T TOUCH IT!"  -- attributed my husband's uncle, the original Ouachita Mountain Bobcat, whose actual name shall not be violated in writing.  Not that you couldn't keep a secret; he just likes to go by "Bob Cox" whenever he's in mixed company.  It's his way of "staying off the grid", he says.  Not like drawing a government check diminishes that kind of anonymity, right?  After all, one must always be on guard and prepared for the fall of modern man. 

I somehow, toward the end of the meal, became the designated pie slicer.  Lemon, chocolate meringue, turtle cheesecake, all the stars were out.  Uncle "Bob" leaned over grandma and I, eager to bestow his wheezing breath upon the portions displayed below.  "What can I do fer ya?" I piped in the local brogue.  "Iiiii think I'd like yonder piece of lemon, please," he said, decided only at the last possible second. 

I carefully split the pie, carefully beginning with the DIVINE shortening-laden crust and inching my way toward the precisely-congealed center.  As the piece I had so carefully cut began to lean over and give way to the weight of the meringue on top, I began to reach over and catch the wobbly confection when the Thundering Voice of Zeus hollered:

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

And now I know better than to stick my clean finger into the man's holiday pie.  The very same man who relocates his sleeping quarters whenever the ticks take over his previous one.

REALLY?

Really.

um, MOUNTAIN LION.

So apparently my early morning walking career is kaput.  Husband-Dear refuses to let me roam far from the house on foot due to the current MOUNTAIN LION problem in Lumberton.

At the little butcher/grocery/hunting gossip hub on the main drag in town, there's a fresh computer-printed picture of the most impressive tooth-and-muscle machine I've ever seen this side of the Ozarks.  Being the kind of town that has grandfathered in permission to host all manner of picturesque herds and horses, you could see why a MOUNTAIN LION could be a cause for concern -- not to mention the sweet, chewable little children who like to play in the road next to the woods around twilight time.

So I guess I'm back to stealing a little stroll time during what brief daylight hours I have to enjoy while unshackled from working normal business hours.  Pleh.  Guess it's back to morning yoga in the library.

City Park, 6:10 a.m.

I awoke this morning to the shocking realization I had actually been asleep.  How utterly refreshing.

Out the door and pounding the pavement at 6 a.m., I watched my breath escape in curling puffs of fog as I ran very, very gently down the road toward the city park. (Gotta watch the knees.)    One of my favorite sights has become the billow of steam rolling off of the sawmill on the edge of town, visible from my front stoop.  It's become a daily reassurance to touch upon.  If logs are rolling, the world's still spinning and everything will inevitably go until it.... stops.

I make it to the park, kick it into gear and cut through a couple of laps, eyeballing my surroundings as I go.  I spot an old-school swingset.  I flick water off the plastic seat with my purple mitten, plop my 28-year-old bum down and fling my legs back with abandon as the sun rises reluctantly.  Creak, creak, creak, creak.  This is the sound of innocence to me.  
 

  

Playlist For Adjusting to New Medication, Part 1

1.  "Fortunate Son" - Creedence Clearwater Revival
2.  "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" - Bob Dylan
3.  "Dance in the Dark" - Lady Gaga
3.  "Soul Cake" - Sting
4.  "We're Not Right" - David Gray
5.  "California Dreaming"  - The Mommas & Poppas
6.  "Sing Me Back Home" - Merle Haggard
7.  "Landslide" - Stevie Nicks
8.  "Night Fever"  - The Bee Gees
9.  "Get Back"  - The Beatles
10.  "Wild Horses" - The Rolling Stones
11.  That weird Saturday morning Indian music show on the public music station.

"LET'S ROCK!"

A Brief Haiku On Congestion

I sneeze and wheeze and
snot; where is this stuff coming from?
My nose is blown.

"Lumberton", 5:55 a.m.

The acid-ochre sunrise.  The friendly pit bull mix.  The not-so-friendly shepherd mix.  The glowing warmth from the lamps of early-morning trailer dwellers.  Sleepy-eyed drivers at the helm of lazily-turning log trucks.  The fragrant steam from the sawmill.

The unfortunate former cat in the bushes, roadside.  The squirrel that came out of absolutely nowhere.  The security light shadowing the horses' barn.  The aroma of meat smoking at the smalltown grocery. The rustle of umber leaves.  Their syrupy smell as i crush them underfoot.

The calm in my limbs as I climb the next hill. 

When the going gets tough, the tough....knit.

I'm so grateful that it's sweater weather out.  I could knit myself a full-body cocoon and hang in a corner for the rest of the day. 

See mercury falling...

I'm so thankful that the first of November is one of those smoggy-foggy days ripe for the imagination, being thick with memories of Niagra in early June, Arlington Park-in-the-dark, or of Cohen brothers' movies I've visited over and over. 

Autumn is easily my favorite season in Arkansas for its tendency to draw out that perfect mood that proves fertile for songwriting and storytelling.  The frosts and mists and foliage aflame are like God's little compensations for the daylight hours growing shorter.  I'm thankful for such beauty that forces me to stand still in awe of such revelation. 

On the lighter side, Halloween in a struggling milltown is fabulous.  Feeling a bit under the weather, I opted to stay in and get rid of all the extra calories in the house by handing them out to younger hips who could afford them.  And oh, I was richly rewarded!  I was treated to a parade of pirates, princesses, razorbacks, angels, demons, baby demons and two precocious young souls dressed as Axl Rose and Slash.  The only hand that could've beaten that for my money would've been Mic Jagger and Keith Richards.  But who sells candy cigarettes anymore, eh?

The Vegetarian Epicure

In a moment of motherly brilliance, my mum came over two years ago bearing the most thoughtful gift: an antique vegetarian cookbook from a hipper age called The Vegetarian Epicure.  If the illustrations of wavy-looking people bedecked with flowers and embroidered tunics aren't an automatic tip-off as to what kind of lifestyle the author endorses, then perhaps the chapter denoting after-dinner "grass" smoking would be a clue. 

(Webmistress's note:  Though I admit to being fascinated with most things bohemian-flavored, I see the drug phenomenon loping alongside hippie culture like a slow, slobbery neighborhood dog that likes to trip up morning joggers.  Ugh.  To quote Neil Young, a lot of good art goes down the drain. What a waste of gray matter.)

All Californianism aside, I love this book still.  And on days like today when the pressure in my sinuses outweighs the pressure at work, the only things I find remotely palatable are vegetable soup and bread.  There's something about the repetitive action of kneading and chopping that releases tension like a balloon. :)

Wednesday morning Smell-a-Thon

I possess an incredibly nuanced sense of smell -- this is likely due to the fact that my other senses are, even in my youth, in rapid decline.  From absorbing fifteen years' worth of high-octane monitor output singing everything from Andrews Sisters' harmonies to a high/lonesome bluegrass whine, my ears are somewhat lacking.  Just ask my co-workers.  Everything they say to me from across the room sounds like Ozzy Ozbourne...I mistakenly think every sentence ends with "Sharon". 

My eyesight is another disaster altogether.  As a -1.75 case of blaring nearsightedness, I stubbornly refuse to wear corrective lenses or eyeglasses.  The former remind me of those spiny-looking inserts they place in the eyes of deceased people in the prep room (thanks to my few in-house sessions with my husband at the local funeral home, I know way too much about this kind of stuff).  Wearing the latter makes me feel like I will never, ever, ever be a rock star when I grow up.  All is vanity, King Sol.  Fo' sho'. 

So this morning, my house was less than fragrant.  I make no apologies to anyone other than myself and its other residents for allowing it to fall into such disarray; with two deaths, a sprinkle of quietly bubbling family drama and a splash of over-commitment, husband-dear and I have hardly been present there long enough to tweak the domestic ambiance.  All of the Glade Plug-Ins (Harvest Spice, of course) have long ago turned into crispy little fire hazards, the pugs' room smells like beef sweat, and the distinct aroma of eau de kitty had wafted along the upstairs hallway.  The nasal dissonance was overwhelming. 

Aromatherapy to the rescue!!!

My recipe for scentual rescue...

Drop into an oil warmer:

8 drops Mandarin essential oil
6 drops Lavendar
6 drops Orange
4 drops Rosewood

Viva la difference!!!

It's a gas, gas, gas.

Yesterday, I caught some poor reporter's interview with newly-minted author Keith Richards (yes, the fallen-from-a-coconut-tree Rolling Stone Keith Richards) on, of all mediums, National Public Radio.  The dialogue went a little something like this:

Unfortunate reporter:

"So, what would you say has been your main musical influence?"

What's Left of Keith:

"Erll, treble clef teddy hair saint Mick a bar and a baby octopus."

/ Lengthy silence edited due to time restraints /

Sometimes God just reaches down from heaven and hands you a pure, perfect pearl.

You Pugly. Bad Pugly.

I suppose that admitting to an animal mania is a bit like having "PATHETIC" chiseled into your forehead, Manson-style.  It's a fault I'll have to own.  My pugs-in-residence, Churchill and Stinkerbell, are simply the wrinkly little lights of my life.  Anyone who truly understands me knows that when the going gets tough and ain't no sunshine, don't send flowers.  Pug images and cashier's checks only.

Therefore, after two especially difficult weeks, two emails appeared in my inbox bearing a parade of pugs in halloween costumes, pugs in compromising positions in the lavatory, and pugs simply bearing the general indignities of their pugliness.  They're googly-eyed.  Their involunary facial expression is one of constant confusion.  Not to mention that their whole physical being looks like something that should be circumcised.  Egads, I adore them. 

Two people slapped a humongous smile on my face this morning.  Just wanted them to know.

When the chips are down....

....the buffalo is, indeed, empty.

Let's call a spade a spade.  I'm an absolute buffoon when it comes to oral banter.  On paper, not so much.  Maybe the world and I can be friends this way.