i'm ok with my decay.

i quit. then i didn't.

but i might again.

in love with this song.

so our end of mabey drive is torn up. i'm living the american dream on a phreeking cul-de-sac.

two days ago, when the street got ripped apart and large machinery started to appear and orange safety signs materialized, etc, it was a beautiful day. i got home from work, drank iced mate and laid on the grass with my guitar and z-flavor. i watched as drivers ignored the road closed sign, tried to power through, and were forced to turn around. if i caught the driver's eye, i couldn't help but laugh.

well, joke's on me. and z. the czar has a weird thing for large machinery. just as beth and i were about to leave on a sunset bike ride, cub cub rubbed his face on the greasiest, narstiest tractor bits. and then he proceeded to let his tail join in the la brea fun.

some people get angry when it rains just days after washing their car. i get annoyed when the chug rubs on tractor tar just days after a bath. who bathes their kitten two times in one week?

and now, shivery kitten, still wet, huddles on my lap. poor fing.

the quiet.

sometimes things should speak for themselves.

the attention economy.

interdisciplinarity. made up, but i'm using it.

funny how when it gets dark you can't see out the windows. only dark reflections.

these glass rooms with kids studying, writing on the glass with markers, so intently.

give me litany or give me death.

michel foucault: a good looking human. archetypal, almost.

yes, i do see you checking yourself out in the reflection.

that stegner quote is bullshit. only being in the desert cures desert desire.

the waitress from indochine, who remembered everything perfectly without writing a word.

times like these, i'd like to be with my guitar.

how the hell did 552 fotos of me end up on phacebook? i have no privacy, and it's my fault.




sometimes the attention lapses into a catatonic informational philandering while one does one's homework in the library.

blood and dust.

i have to fill my tank today, or i will run out of gas the next time i drive.

(and i don't want to live through another "running out of gas" incident. always ridiculously embarassing.)

so here's the problem:

i started working at red butte garden (which is my new boyfriend by the way. i love it/him very much) and i haven't figured out the bus schedule/shuttle schedule/etc yet. so i've been driving. the fatty. fatty fatkins. and though he is a kind and reliable friend, i don't love driving him.

i miss my little walk to the bus stop. i miss seeing my favorite tree on 27th south. i miss my little friends, who wear rain bonnets and say HELLO so very loudly, who discuss the weather with me. i miss zoning out and staring out the window for approximately 15 minutes each way.

absence makes the heart frown, sometimes imperceptibly. i need to figure this out.

but this is a list you want to kiss.

in the garden yesterday.

a pair of red-tailed hawks
a pair of woodpeckers (hairy maybe, but maybe i don't know)
a pair of canada geese (courtship dance and mating included!)
a flocklet of ruby-crowned kinglets
a pair of quail (not california quail, but some big fat quail, maybe chuckar)

i wish i knew birds.

there will be no pictures of you and willie mays pushing that shopping cart

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised- Gil Scott Heron
Uploaded by larsen42. - Explore more music videos.

i am ready

for a barefoot summer.

the takeaways.

i have a crush on 65 year old woman who is deeply enthusiastic about geomorphology.

pleistocene rewilding is not a figment of my imagination and the nine-banded armadillo is a proposed species of the project.

sandbar willow has another name: coyote willow.

and finally, i don't know about this blog.

silence.

play a little.

thermals.

http://mrdoob.com/projects/harmony/#shaded


reading old blog posts. funny how things change.

date the landscape.

i'm pretty exhausted, but i think the exhaustion comes from returning.

i could stay out another week.

and now i'm pharting around on phacebook.

let's take and informal vote: should i go back to the desert in one week or two weeks, or bolth.

overhead.

The White Mountain (extended) from charles on Vimeo.

i'll take three earths, please.

my eco footprint

So Thoreau.

Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they were called to labour in.

a whole flock.

Cedar Waxwing

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/133.html

subconscious coleoptera

Last night I dreamt that I found a beautiful cerambycid on the curtain of an old house. When I went to get a bottle to hold him, I found a beautiful buprestid on my wrist.







The cerambycid was a powdery white color and had deep texture on its elytra. Its head was a powdery blue with a slight sparkle, like snow. Its antennae were powdery white and had cleary defined squatty v-shaped segments.

The buprestid was black underneath, black legs, dusty gold elytra. Some very faint lime green in the gold, near the head.

today we're all busdrivers.

singing loudly at the busstop is permitted, and appreciated.

and a joke that goes something like this:

x: let me see your phone.
y: ok. (hands x the phone)
x: guess who i'm gonna call.
y: (interrupted)
x: ghostbusters. (laughs a good laugh)

on the ride home i briefly considered becoming a bus driver during the summer.

it is a noble job.

and i miss my friend harold (or was it howard? how unreliable my mind!), who used to drive my route and tell me all about the charms of wendover.













zim is singing to the juncos and chickadees at the feeder.