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It is a strange day today.  Things seem surreal.  I feel floaty.

After work I'm going to a casual gala.  More galas should be casual.
 
It's so quiet at the office this week.  It's even easy to park on the street.

Starnes wants me to come see her.  And bring the dog.  It's hard to imagine.  I've got tree service folks coming to give me an estimate soon-ish, and figure I'd better wait for the blow of that expense before I begin to think of leaving town for any real trip.  Not to mention I have all manner of stuff to do here, and it's coming into my favorite season (boy is it nice out there today),  But I have it in my head again to make a quick jaunt, with good timing, because I think it's bad for me not to leave the county for, like, years at a time.  Bad for my health.  My spiritual health.

Meanwhile, I'm metabolizing.

Saw some wimmin last night I've known for quite a while.  Came away feeling like quite the free agent, independent operator, unmoored soul, soveriegn nation, unfettered engenderer.  As well as person with stains on her shirt.  As I left I ran into another woman, this one one I've known only in a parking lot, and soon she detected the arrival of one I hadn't met but had heard tell of.  The two tried to get me to defect to their contingent, and to stay and drink with them.  But I got gas and went home.  Such was the choice of this free agent.
 

Word of the Day: metabolize

I've got an eye on the weather.  Cuz I've got an option on the afternoon off, for going to float in a lake.  Warm and not entirely sunny are just right, and it looks like rain's mostly gonna hold off.
 

do you?

 


I didn't make it to the local opening night of the new Woody tonight.  Later.  Sleep soon, and day over, with its fucked up glasses and everything else.
 

sneaking in a post

LJ's gonna be down an hour at 6 o'clock our time.  Not to mention I'll be zipping home to walk the dog before heading out to a meeting, which I'm surprised I'm not gonna sleep insteada going to, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to sleep insteada going to it.

Bert just came in to tell us that the Russian term for kissing numbers is contact numbers (only in Russian).  We are more romantical, I said.  After trying for a Tits joke that didn't go over.

Now he's telling Kerri how he made a salad for the neighborhood potluck this weekend.  I made one too.  I made a fruit one.  A simple fruit one.  I don't even know which salad was Bert's salad.  There were a lot of salads there.  It was salad-crazy.  I had leftovers from the sampling I took home for all of yesterday's meals.

Hey, Bert, which one was your salad?

The one with the sugar snaps and radishes and ricotta salata and mint.

Oh, right.  That one.  That one was pretty good.

Mine was blueberries and nectarines.  It's very simple.  Here's a picture of an earlier version of the same pairing:


Mmmm.   Sweet.  The Michigan blueberries are real sweet this year, btw.

Hey, I almost forgot it's a voting day!  If I hadn't seen Bert's "I voted" sticker just now, I'd have forgotten to stop and plunk down my two cents' on the city council.  Phew!
 

I'm in the middle of a galley race, but ...

... I ask you:  what's the best joke on "allowed"/"aloud" you can come up with?  I've just noticed these sound the same.

My first idea:


        NO
  FARTING
    ALOUD

 
 

This is the week of the flying by Pluto.

This is the week of the flying by Pluto.
This is the ending date declaration.
This is the Art Fair booth thing and then sing.
This is the toy problem problem.

This is the Bézout bio saved for fun.
This is a buffalo postcard from Jewels.
This is regular day of low chatting.
This is my heart, collapsed after screaming.

There is the new show with Masters the Taker.
There is a countertop wanting a clearing.
There are the animals.  There are the foods.
There are the not saved for fun math reviews.
 
What a night.

It's cool and lovely out, however.

It's been hard not to feel like a ticking bomb lately.  Plus I don't know what's going on, and I'm trying to be okay with that.  And there's that thing about how everything is uncertain so if you can't be comfortable with uncertainty you can't be comfortable.  Yet I've certainly done a few good things lately in the taking-care-of-myself department.  That's on the 7th floor, between lingerie and children's shoes.

Ms. Sandperson, how about some sweet ones tonight?
 

Today seems pretty quiet.

There was the shouting argument the woman in front of me had on the phone with her husband about how much it was going to cost to ship the broken phone, while fedex dude and I waited.  After consulting the absent partner with a lot of pissy back and forth and then deciding not to ship it after all, the woman then couldn't even choose whether she wanted to keep the box the phone was in, when the shipping guy offered her the option of just taking it away in the box.  She acted like that was a consequential thing that she'd have to debate a while.  I nearly snapped at her at that point, having already stood there for while the box sat on the scale for a solid 5 minutes of her not making up her mind about options and showing no compunction about making shipping dude and me wait out her crap.

Other than that, it's been a really quiet day.

I talked to Cally for a coupla minutes, finding her on the bench outside the office door, here in her last week at this place.

It's warm and humid out.  On break I brought Bert's trash cans in as well as mine.  Project Sleepy Haven is well underway, but the pièce de résistance won't happen until tonight at the earliest.

I looked up the accents on pièce de résistance.  I can't even remember the accent on à la.  I suppose I could actually learn those things, instead of looking them up all the time.
 
I've been lazily saving "evol" points at my desk for many months.  When I get the T-shirt and look at myself in it in the mirror, it will say "love", but sort of as if someone located inside my appendix were saying it.  This is not where I ordinarily think of my inner self-love, but I'm gonna be flexible that way.


If I'd been in a committee meeting during the consideration of "evol" as a brand name, I'd have been concerned that it sounds too close to "evil" when spoken aloud, if spoken aloud.  This hasn't been a problem for me as a consumer of their frozen lunch options (which are notably cheaper hereabouts at Target vs. elsewhere), on accounta I don't have call to speak the name, but it makes me think I wouldn't want to be employed by them, what with needing to avoid saying something that sounds like "I work for evil."
 

I totally forgot

I totally forgot I could park in the lot today.

I totally forgot I was gonna go to a thing yesterday evening.

I totally didn't know the Tony Awards show was on last night.

I totally was chillin' in the rainy afternooneve.

It's time to turn to the stuff of home, in earnest, or in more earnest.  Seems like it should be "in earnest" then "in greater earnestness" then "most earnestally" (ok jk abt that last one).  It's time to be being deliberate about socializing, with stock social stuff drying up for summer.  It's (surely) (again and seemingly always) time to face facts and feel feelings.  It's also 11:44 a.m.
 

I'm getting Dominos pizza on the way home.

The company is not the evil company it once was.  I still feel funny.  Not quite right about it.  But what the hell.  It's a little thing to do differently, and I'm hungry.

I have a new weed wacker in the car, in its box.  This is exciting and scary.

The times they are a-wrenchin', but also very very good.  I can't even tell ya.

Alright, let's get this show on the road.
 

okay that's two things

A couple of things to hang on to:

(1)  I just signed on, late to the party, to join a subset of our chorus in joining members of Sing Out Detroit for an appearance at Motor City Pride this year.  I've never been to Pride in Detroit.  I was at something in Ferndale once, I think, maybe that was a Pride thing, not sure.  Anyhow.

(2)  Apparently there is a TV show called Orphan Black that I had somehow never heard of until today that has science geeks in love and girls kissing and strangeness.

These make nice additions to

(3)    t   h   i   s        b   r   e   a   t    h
 
 
The eaglets are standing on the edges of the nests.

Wind wiggles them.  Now and then
they stick out arms, unhinge
the feathered flesh, its teenage
color changes like fresh paint,
highlights, with us those are called,
we who stretch and test and try not just
readying to leave the classic nest
but so over and over the eaglets are trite,
called up and hauled out to speak about us.

Yet there they are, literally.
There they are on the webcams,
one covered with eaglet shit
cuz yeah that camera angle
made for a great view
but the odds were way high
for some flying shit shoot
to hit the target, cloud the view,
need more than a season's rain
to clear up.  This poem
is cloudy too, but some
shows through it, though
by this stanza it stopped
feeling like a poem and
I don't fucking care,
I'm detached fine from the
eaglets and their pending fledging too.
fledge pledge minwax wane
tippy tippy quite insane
riff on rhymes, associate,
mad men letterman conflate
there once was a man from nantucket
 

It's a weird time.

It's a weird time, and of all the things I might post, what I feel like telling you about, here on the Friday afternoon before the snuck-up-on-me long holiday weekend, is how I'm carrying my tire pressure gauge with me.

A few days ago I saw that I had a slightly flattened tire on my automobile.  I took said automobile to the gas station at Main and Wm and put air in it.  The air thingie didn't have one of those built-in pressure gauges (which are no doubt terribly inaccurate but Good Enough For Me call me a bad car steward fine that's fair) so I dug into my glove compartment and found that I did indeed have a tire gauge.


tire gauge.jpg             
my tire gauge              


So I had the gauge in my pocket that night and took it out again the next day in case I needed it to re-check the tire, but the tire looked fine.  It continues to look fine, but I continue putting it back into my pocket rather than back into the glove compartment.  (Yes "glovebox" is shorter but I don't like "glovebox" or "glove box" as much.)

Having the tire pressure gauge in my pocket is good.  Not quite a worry stone, but maybe sorta like that.  A talisman more than a relic.  A symbol (anything could be) and a comfort object.  And a tire pressure gauge above all those.
 

practice, practice, practice

So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
 

Answer for question 4354.

What's your favorite saying or quote? Why does it mean something special to you? How did you come across it?
My not-business card features a quotation from Gilda Radner. I found it in an apple juice lid years ago. Yeah, the thing she said about delicious ambiguity, with all its tragic associations, is right up there for me spiritually, but this is my answer to this question:

"I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn't itch."
 
 
I'm not presenting any here, but I just saw one on my screensaver. I have several of those I was grabbed by that I scanned and see sometimes, on a monitor. Clues to who they were before I existed, and in general.

Sometimes, like just now, I realize it's odd I never saw any of many snapshots while they were still alive, while we were a family.
 

after spikesgirl58


Your Glow is Pink

You exude love and compassion. You have a glow about you that is welcoming and uplifting.
You are a natural nurturer and have an affection for people, animals, and even plants.

You have a lot of sweetness and hope. Even when things look bleak, you see how they could still turn around.
You get along well with others, but you do have an unconventional streak. You pursue your values over the world's values.





Tracy was glad I could be in the work picture today, especially cuz I am wearing pink.

My old friend Steve could really rock a pink shirt.
 

I'm sure you know April is poetry month.

I don't know who decided that, or when.  I don't think it was Hallmark.

Among other daily poem feeds in April, I get one from Knopf, who provided this one today, from Mark Strand.



The Rose

The sorrows of the rose were mounting up.
Twisted in a field of weeds, the helpless rose
felt the breeze of paradise just once, then died.
The children cried, “Oh rose, come back.
We love you, rose.” Then someone said that soon
they'd have another rose. “Come, my darlings,
down to the pond, lean over the edge and look
at yourselves looking up. Now do you see it,
its petals open, rising to the surface, turning into you?”
“Oh no,” they said. "We are what we are — nothing else."


How perfect. How ancient. How past repair.
 

 

a snail crossed my path

The snail picture in this entry's user pic, in fact.

It was on a concrete step, of all places.  As I came back into the office.

Did it fall there?
Did it crawl there?

Snails say what?  "Slow is okay"?  "Good thing I have this shell"?  Both?
 

There was a serial killer in my dreams.

We had to whisper and write notes in case he was listening, and then when he arrived in a big black Cadillac supposedly to take at least one of us to Paris and I saw him through the window walking toward the house in gloves with the hypodermic (he was probably in the Henley too) (he was always in the Henley when he was going to kill someone) I said "Why didn't I get a weapon?" and led the escape through the side door, the screen squeaking and banging a little too much, but "Run like hell!" and we did, and in a bit I knew he'd been captured, and when it sunk in I looked around and saw the trees like I hadn't in years and the freedom washed over and through me like I couldn't believe, and I wanted to tell neighbors, which neighbors, Linda and David's door was open but they didn't know about him, well whatever, I'm free, but wait, now there are flashes to other scenes; now there is someone who looks a lot like him in a bar; now there's a flashback to him cleaning out his place before he came over, and I know of a sudden the evidence won't necessarily hold up; now there's Kathy B, the detective and the witness, who didn't know the whole story, of course she's going to misinterpret what she saw and heard; now --- he's not going to be staying safely put away.

Awaken.  Get up.  Go in.
 

I'll lay odds.

FestiFools and FoolMoon are coming up this weekend.  The usual close-to-April-Fool's date was bumped this year by the timing of Jesus Christ Being Ris'n And The Dominant Cultural Partying Around That.  I just got another email from the organizers (of the FestiFoolery, not the Christly Ris'nry), and there was a photo of a buncha colorfully dressed parade viewers, grinning, lotsa kids, detail, happy, good-lookin'.  Sure enough, it was by the local photographer who shoots the events every year, leaving a gorgeous trail depicting the street stuff via almost entirely conventionally beautiful faces, cleanly framed and beaming, great to look at in their way but kinda disgusting in their whitewashy advertising-slick sheen and exclusion.

The shiny happy nonutilitarian childlike goofy fun, of course hoorah, look what we do, but it's just all too cleaned up and nonugly in those pictures.  There's beauty in the craggy ugly old ugly fat ugly misshapen ugly unkempt ugly possibly-insane colorful ugly, in the regularly attired people selling the newsletter of the homeless, in the curled up piece of food wrapper lodged in the corner of the pothole.  She's just too fucking particular and tidy about her celebration.  Some of her pictures shit yeah I love, but I also totally hate her.
 

There are 17 wallpaper groups.

17.

I believe I have found my favorite-ever Wikipedia page.