If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Sunday, September 30, 2012

In The Wake, Vaguely

I wanted to tell you before about the not so mysterious someone or something who is eating pears on my back porch, about Dixie getting bloated on moon stuff, and the piece of superwood that rattled my brain parts idiotically. But I was busy being sad and not so much wanting to never get a certain someone’s comments, ever again, in the places I have grown so used to finding them. But that certain someone would think that was an absolutely silly reason to not write the silly things that I write.

And so we write. Despite.



Thursday, September 27, 2012

My Dear Friend...

You are loved.
You are missed.

Dixie and the Littlest Birthday

“You’re just going to have to get used to birthdays now,” Dixie explained. “And cake and presents and Mexican food sometimes in the middle of the week.”

     Since she knew all about meteors and why girl elephants can sometimes be bigger, the boy didn’t argue. He made a boy’s simple wish, blew out his candle, and found wrapped in brown paper the reason for the flutterings he often felt in his stomach, when she looked at him that one way in particular.

     You know that way.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Dixie said,

"Take a picture, it will last longer."

So he did.

                                                    And this time...

                                  ...he thinks...

...it will.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

LGBTQIA Chickens

So, we all know that I’m down to two chickens from thirty-five, thanks to Ranger Rick and his buddies—god rest their heathen souls. At first, I wasn’t too worried about the whole deal. Pissed maybe, but not worried. I mean, I still had a rooster and a hen, right? Adam and Eve. I figured next spring I’d throw a couple eggs off in the incubator and be knee deep in birds by June—lineage intact. I forget though, this is Elsewhere, land of weirdness.

          My hen—Eve—is... Oh, how do you say it? Different.

          I have Rocks. Had Rocks. Speckled Rocks. Normally the hens of this breed are heavy and low to the ground—squat. Eve, on the other hand, is tall. If chickens played professional women’s basketball, Eve would be a starting forward. She looks forever like a rooster, only without a crown. She hasn’t laid egg one and wants nothing to do with Adam.

          I’m thinking Eve is either lesbian, or gay, or bisexual, or transgender, or questioning, or intersexual, or asexual.

          Which ever, I’m fucked… chicken-wise

          Not that there’s anything wrong with that.