picnic

Red russian, german, hebrew on the canvas bag that hangs on the stained glass door. The woman from Georgia said that you have to weld the metals to the frame with a soldering iron. Her art had too many triangles for my liking, but her hands looked like an asiatic map, painted with a sumi and suzuri.
I picked up a free cardboard box full of 1993 copy written medical encyclopedias today. A craftsman from the lawn service commented on how heavy they were when I requested that he carry it inside to the library.

He had already exclaimed about the a-shirt I wore; McCain Lawn Care, which had been given to me by the man that does the gardening and tedious landscaping, 29 year old Brian. I went into the back of his pick-up truck and asked for it while James showed his collaborative studio in the barn. It has appealing dirt and grass stains, and wide holes where sleeves once were. "Yeah sure, it's not mine. I used to work for them, before I started working here." Brian was raised by his step-mother after his biological father left them before he reached puberty. Three of his siblings were born in the month of May, accompanying his birth day, the 22nd. He told me that he remembers me sleeping beside the pool last summer, then showed me the brimful insects that are feasting on the dead birch tree.

  "Hey mom, is this the daughter? The one that lives in New York?" he asked when delivering the invoice. "In college? What are you gonna do after?"
  "English professor,"
  "Whoa-hoh ... that's good."
  "That's why I read so much. Er, I'll teach English because I read so much."
  "You're tellin' me!"
  "Have you met my mum's dog? The small one that bites ankles?"
  "I've seen him, yeah. The black one?"
  "He's dead. He died a couple days ago. That's what my mother just attempted telling you,"
  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. My dog died a few weeks ago. He was hit by a train and had his head cut off."

Two days ago, a minute conversation nearby charmed me, so I imagined writing it down, which normally embeds it in my memory. I can't think of it now. I have to teach myself not to be so distracted at times. I may have been dreaming. Lately, my dreams conspire to have me keep things. I often wake up wanting to write down quotations from the dream, then I fall asleep and the mnemonic ebbs.

I'm ticked off and heavy-hearted; I just went to turn on my laptop and begin uploading the 600 photographs taken this weekend, as well as, roughly, two hundred from the past month which complimented the recent accumulation with fellow subjects and occasion. These have yet to be backed onto an external hard drive, which I do every two months for my well-being. I received a message telling me there was an error that caused Windows to shut down. The message asked me to choose between safe mode, safe mode with command prompt, last known working configuration, and start windows normally. Start windows normally then. It restarted and brought me directly back to the same caviling screen, black with white text, deriding me with a 30 second count-down and blinking text cursor. After ten tries, I went to call customer services, but my serial has worn from the sticker and all of my notebook materials are in the country house. My second and pis aller, I called Tim four times, then our friend John, as he was following him back to his house for the night and day to enjoy the amenities of home, including the Halo 3 demo. By then I was in tears over the idea of losing my files. Tim assured me that he'll save the files when he comes tomorrow, but I'm still ticked off and heavy-hearted.

Long live the queen

Sweet Goddess
Born of a blinding light and a changing wind,
Now, don't be modest, you know who you are and where you've been.
Jack the Cowboy went up north
He's buried in your past.
The Lone Wolf went out drinking
That was over pretty fast.
Sweet Goddess
Your perfect stranger's comin' in at last.

Oh my gosh, so vastly in love with Tim
I've been awake for an hour - it may be time to get dressed

Coy

Mylhasapoo.com gallery
No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversations as a dog does. Not as often, rather.
Unlike other dogs, my dog doesn't circle his napping area before setting down to sleep, he plops down when exhaustion strikes as though he has no choice but to do so. I use the word 'plop', because there's no other way to describe the sound.
This is how our nighttime discussions usually go; "Wat-so, are you adequately awake to join me on a walk?" I put him on the floor as I get up from wherever I'm lounging. Plop! Then I grab a book, he watches me, and if I pass into another room, he follows and plops near me. "Good boy."

Drink from this heart now, for all this loving it contains. When you look for it again, it will be dancing in the wind.

I will not read the final Harry Potter book

"I am. What crazy reason do you have for this one? I'm sure you'll make it sound completely rational and valid, but as much as I love you, you won't stop me reading it. Then again, I'm not a Harry Potter fanatic so don't really care whether I do or don't read it..."

"I don't care for Harry. Neville holds my heart, and I don't want to know how she concludes the story,"

For once, elucidate on something necessary and satisfy the populace!

"I'm torn between apathy for her choice, and concern for her sequitur. If I am to read the final book and Neville isn't expounded with every bit of diction and cadence allotted to her imagination, her adjudication would sentence me to excruciating benightedness! To fill me with hope in book 5, when his character becomes distinct, then mention him three measley times in the 6th... it was like trying to nap in a bivouac.
"Aside from this; the feelings inferred from reading the books are fond to me, I enjoy recalling the days and nights I spent reading them. I spent a day in my mother's bed reading Prisoner of Azkaban. Her long windows were open and Lake was outside with James. I ate an entire bag of strawberry licorice.
"The 6th book disillusioned me, I no longer feel that she could consummate the series. Not reading it will my avoidance of disappointment and denouement; I want the possibility of firstly reading it to stay open, for my satisfaction."

a moment quiet enough, crickets would've been amply suitable, so I picked up straw in my mind and chewed on it, then I rocked back and forth on the white rocking chair