His car was spotted on Dayton Street. Wait a minute, isn't that the laundromat across the street?
There he is!Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Where's Walter?
His car was spotted on Dayton Street. Wait a minute, isn't that the laundromat across the street? There he is!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Existentialist Dreaming
When I told Mona that my dreams seem to be broken lately, she accused me of malingering.
“Don’t start acting crazy on me, Harry.” she said. “It’s not going to work.”
“Why does it always have to be about you?” I replied.
“Of course it’s not about me. It can’t be. You never dream about me.”
“Please, just listen for once,” I begged. “Last night I dreamed I went out in the snow to feed the chickens. When I opened the door to the coop, there was another door inside. It wasn’t connected to anything, like a floating plane, half in – half out. In the dream I became confused. I thought to myself, this isn’t right. It defies the laws of physics. But then I realized I was only dreaming. I told myself to get rid of the door and it vaporized. But I wasn’t satisfied. The dream is spoiled for me now, I thought. So I woke up and told myself, you have to remember this, so you can tell Mona about it in the morning. This isn’t the only one I have had like that. There have been others, but I can’t remember them. You know me, I hardly ever remember my dreams. But I know this, remember them or not, they have been unsatisfactory, lately. I don’t know what to do. My dreams are broken.”
“So, you are telling me that your dreams are broken,” she huffed. “This just proves that you don’t love me anymore. You’re so damn selfish.”
Whenever she says this, and she says it a lot, I always scoff at the idea of it. But I am coming to think there may be something to it. So I have resolved to love her more. Maybe she’s right. As absurd as it may seem, there may be a link between these fragmented dreams and the way I go through life.
“I don’t mean ‘broken dreams’ like in some sappy love song,” I said. “I mean my dreams, my actual night time dreams, aren’t working right. Like a broken television, or when the projectionist gets the reels mixed up in the movie theater, things are happening out of context.”
“You don’t love me as much as I love you,” she said.
This is probably true. I don’t love her has much as she wants me to, but I love her enough for me. Is there something wrong with me? Do other people think like this? I don’t like talking about our relationship all the time, like she does. I think it should just happen, without any special engineering. But I have to admit, when I just let it happen, there is an element of selfishness that seeps in from my end. I’m always trying to impose my will on her. That’s okay, it never works anyway.
“I would take a bullet for you,” I said. “I would jump in front of a train to protect you.”
“Really?” she cooed and hugged me.
This always works. Sometimes I feel guilty about using it. But I mean it. I would make that choice. I would give up my life for her. There are a million reasons and they have little to do with love.
“If I were drowning, would you save me?” she asked.
“Of course I would.”
“If I was drowning and one of your children was drowning at the same time, who would you save?
“Not a problem. Both my kids can swim.”
“Don’t try to wiggle out of this,” she said. “If you won the 10 million dollar lottery this week, how much would you give me?”
“I’d give it all to you,” I said.
“That’s better.”
“But what about my dreams?” I asked.
“Just love me more and everything will be alright,” she said.
Lottery by Camper Van Beethoven
in dreams
She was dressing for work.
I was just laying there
watching, listening
to her early morning
bird song.
"I dreamed again
last night," she said.
"Another bad dream?"
I asked.
"No. You were in it
again. So many times
you've been in my dreams.
Do you dream about me?"
"Sometimes," I lied,
since I never dream.
"How do I look?"
she was curious.
"I can't remember,"
I lied some more.
"How do I look
in your dreams?"
I asked.
"Younger," she said.
“Don’t start acting crazy on me, Harry.” she said. “It’s not going to work.”
“Why does it always have to be about you?” I replied.
“Of course it’s not about me. It can’t be. You never dream about me.”
“Please, just listen for once,” I begged. “Last night I dreamed I went out in the snow to feed the chickens. When I opened the door to the coop, there was another door inside. It wasn’t connected to anything, like a floating plane, half in – half out. In the dream I became confused. I thought to myself, this isn’t right. It defies the laws of physics. But then I realized I was only dreaming. I told myself to get rid of the door and it vaporized. But I wasn’t satisfied. The dream is spoiled for me now, I thought. So I woke up and told myself, you have to remember this, so you can tell Mona about it in the morning. This isn’t the only one I have had like that. There have been others, but I can’t remember them. You know me, I hardly ever remember my dreams. But I know this, remember them or not, they have been unsatisfactory, lately. I don’t know what to do. My dreams are broken.”
“So, you are telling me that your dreams are broken,” she huffed. “This just proves that you don’t love me anymore. You’re so damn selfish.”
Whenever she says this, and she says it a lot, I always scoff at the idea of it. But I am coming to think there may be something to it. So I have resolved to love her more. Maybe she’s right. As absurd as it may seem, there may be a link between these fragmented dreams and the way I go through life.
“I don’t mean ‘broken dreams’ like in some sappy love song,” I said. “I mean my dreams, my actual night time dreams, aren’t working right. Like a broken television, or when the projectionist gets the reels mixed up in the movie theater, things are happening out of context.”
“You don’t love me as much as I love you,” she said.
This is probably true. I don’t love her has much as she wants me to, but I love her enough for me. Is there something wrong with me? Do other people think like this? I don’t like talking about our relationship all the time, like she does. I think it should just happen, without any special engineering. But I have to admit, when I just let it happen, there is an element of selfishness that seeps in from my end. I’m always trying to impose my will on her. That’s okay, it never works anyway.
“I would take a bullet for you,” I said. “I would jump in front of a train to protect you.”
“Really?” she cooed and hugged me.
This always works. Sometimes I feel guilty about using it. But I mean it. I would make that choice. I would give up my life for her. There are a million reasons and they have little to do with love.
“If I were drowning, would you save me?” she asked.
“Of course I would.”
“If I was drowning and one of your children was drowning at the same time, who would you save?
“Not a problem. Both my kids can swim.”
“Don’t try to wiggle out of this,” she said. “If you won the 10 million dollar lottery this week, how much would you give me?”
“I’d give it all to you,” I said.
“That’s better.”
“But what about my dreams?” I asked.
“Just love me more and everything will be alright,” she said.
Lottery by Camper Van Beethoven
in dreams
She was dressing for work.
I was just laying there
watching, listening
to her early morning
bird song.
"I dreamed again
last night," she said.
"Another bad dream?"
I asked.
"No. You were in it
again. So many times
you've been in my dreams.
Do you dream about me?"
"Sometimes," I lied,
since I never dream.
"How do I look?"
she was curious.
"I can't remember,"
I lied some more.
"How do I look
in your dreams?"
I asked.
"Younger," she said.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Tracks in the snow
The wide path is mine, from the steps leading down from my deck to the entrance to Chicken Land. I trek through the snow daily to bring the girls food and water. But those other tracks. They were made last night or early this morning. They go from under my deck to the fence around the chicken run, then stitch a crazy quilt through the snow in the yard. Could it have been Allen Street Al? Did he see his shadow and go back into that huge hole he has dug under my deck? Stay tuned! I will be looking for him early tomorrow morning, camera in hand.
Ice art photos by Susan Gartner
Susan Gartner found this ice sculpture in the yard of Moya Shea's house on High Street, near the corner of Dayton.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Icicles at the Humanist Center
The sun glistened
in the quiet of the morning.
Only the stove was crackling
and the eaves creaking,
hopefully, not cracking.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
First day out in a long time
Talk about being cooped up... My girls haven't been out in a couple weeks. Surprisingly, most of them opted to stay in and wait for more snow to melt when I openend up this morning. But a brave handful came out and lingered on the few patches of bare ground, soaking up the rays. I expect most of the snow will be gone in Chicken Land by late this afternoon. They better enjoy it, I hear there is more on the way.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Is it okay for a grown man cry over the death of a chicken?
I'm hoping it's too early to be writing Rocky's obituary, but things are not looking good for the Grande Dame of Chicken Land. Yesterday, she was balled up on the floor of Unit A when I opened up. And she stayed that way most of the day. I actually considered bringing her inside the house, but I figured Mona would pitch a fit. Last night Mona said she would be okay with that. But this morning Rocky looked a bit better. Somehow, she had made her way up onto the roost (about 2 feet off the floor) and stayed there when I opened up this morning. I locked her in and am counting on the sunshine to keep her warm.
In a touching scene, yesterday, three of her friends came back into the coop after having been let out, and spent the rest of the day keeping watch over her. While they can be moody and especially viscious when maintaining their position in the pecking order, they can also be remakably empathetic. I have seen them mourn the loss of one of the flock on more than one occasion.
Mona says that when she was a kid growing up in Malaysia, they used to disolve an aspirin in water and give it to a sick chicken. I don't know... We are due for some warm weather. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
Addendum: I tried the aspirin in water, but she didn't even open her eyes when I tried to give it to her. She wouldn't take any. Her comb feels dry and cold. I don't think she is going to make it through the day. I have brought her in the house. She is so limp, I thought she died while I was carrying her across the yard. The warmth seems to have had an immediate effect. She is breathing more steadily.
Post mortem: Rocky passed at 9:10 this evening after rallying valiantly during the day. She had a seizure while I was trying to get her to take some water. We will bury her tomorrow under the bamboo in a peaceful corner of the yard.
In a touching scene, yesterday, three of her friends came back into the coop after having been let out, and spent the rest of the day keeping watch over her. While they can be moody and especially viscious when maintaining their position in the pecking order, they can also be remakably empathetic. I have seen them mourn the loss of one of the flock on more than one occasion.
Mona says that when she was a kid growing up in Malaysia, they used to disolve an aspirin in water and give it to a sick chicken. I don't know... We are due for some warm weather. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
Addendum: I tried the aspirin in water, but she didn't even open her eyes when I tried to give it to her. She wouldn't take any. Her comb feels dry and cold. I don't think she is going to make it through the day. I have brought her in the house. She is so limp, I thought she died while I was carrying her across the yard. The warmth seems to have had an immediate effect. She is breathing more steadily.
Post mortem: Rocky passed at 9:10 this evening after rallying valiantly during the day. She had a seizure while I was trying to get her to take some water. We will bury her tomorrow under the bamboo in a peaceful corner of the yard.
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