...they paved paradise/ and put up a parking lot/ they took all the trees/ and put them in a tree museum/ then they charged the people/ a dollar and a half just to see 'em...
The sun gleams blinding on the flat waters of the harbor. Beyond, twin plumes of steam rise from the stacks of Brandon Shores power plant, floating above the dinosaurian skeletal frames of mechanical monsters.
Nearby, a pair of large rocks protrude from the inlet, covered with birds. White-shirted cormorants glare at the monstrous floating city moored across the way. The lone heron among them tips his prehistoric head disdainfully and flaps away.
Marsh grasses rustle against the light breeze. Somewhere, I know there is a tent almost, but not quite entirely hidden from view. I often wonder about the tent's inhabitant: homeless, semi-homeless, or just living off the grid?
A seagull sounds as it sails overhead. I lock my car and walk into the Wal-Mart.
(Joni Mitchell; Big Yellow Taxi)
Showing posts with label trailerville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trailerville. Show all posts
02 November, 2011
14 August, 2011
Sleep, Interrupted.
...whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you....
I've stayed up too late chatting on the internet with a friend I've never met. She has wonderful words of advice about something that's been troubling me for several months, so I don't begrudge the lost sleep. I gather a few things I'll need in the morning then tuck myself in for a few hours… at least, that was the plan. In less than an hour, the dogs wake me, barking furiously. I listen, and hear a knocking at my front door. This used to not be an unusual occurrence when RJ was living nearby, but he has moved away. Who is knocking? I hurry downstairs and peek under the curtain. There are two uniformed people, one of whom bears passing resemblance to the girl who used to care for my babies, back when I had babies. I open the door. It's the police.
Why are the police at my house?
"We received a 911 call from this residence."
What? A 911 call? From MY house?
"It was a 911 hang-up."
Ah, okay. Which the police are obligated to investigate. The cruiser is parked diagonally across my street, which I mentally note is a Bad Idea, considering the speed at which drivers regularly take my hill. It's 3 AM. Why are the police at my house at 3 AM?
No, I didn't make a 911 call. I was sleeping. The kids are also sleeping.
"Do you have any housemates, someone renting a room?"
Nobody. What the hell? Also, my land-line doesn't work particularly well, and mostly provides me with internet access, which is also spotty. Not only DID no one make a 911 call from my house, I doubt anyone COULD make a 911 call from my house.
"Well, it was just a mistake, then. Sorry to have woken you."
But whose mistake? How?
I go back to bed, but I do not sleep, not for quite a while.
(Bob Marley; Bad Boys)
I've stayed up too late chatting on the internet with a friend I've never met. She has wonderful words of advice about something that's been troubling me for several months, so I don't begrudge the lost sleep. I gather a few things I'll need in the morning then tuck myself in for a few hours… at least, that was the plan. In less than an hour, the dogs wake me, barking furiously. I listen, and hear a knocking at my front door. This used to not be an unusual occurrence when RJ was living nearby, but he has moved away. Who is knocking? I hurry downstairs and peek under the curtain. There are two uniformed people, one of whom bears passing resemblance to the girl who used to care for my babies, back when I had babies. I open the door. It's the police.
Why are the police at my house?
"We received a 911 call from this residence."
What? A 911 call? From MY house?
"It was a 911 hang-up."
Ah, okay. Which the police are obligated to investigate. The cruiser is parked diagonally across my street, which I mentally note is a Bad Idea, considering the speed at which drivers regularly take my hill. It's 3 AM. Why are the police at my house at 3 AM?
No, I didn't make a 911 call. I was sleeping. The kids are also sleeping.
"Do you have any housemates, someone renting a room?"
Nobody. What the hell? Also, my land-line doesn't work particularly well, and mostly provides me with internet access, which is also spotty. Not only DID no one make a 911 call from my house, I doubt anyone COULD make a 911 call from my house.
"Well, it was just a mistake, then. Sorry to have woken you."
But whose mistake? How?
I go back to bed, but I do not sleep, not for quite a while.
(Bob Marley; Bad Boys)
04 August, 2011
Summer, Suddenly
...then it happened/ it took me by surprise/ I knew that you felt it too/ by the look in your eyes....
It wasn't that the car was pulled up to the kerb, blocking foot and cart traffic as shoppers exited the market.
It wasn't that the windows were wide open while the stereo emitted incomprehensible bleating voices and the rhythmic backbeat of what I believe is called R & B.
It wasn't that the car sagged on the occupied driver's side presumably with the not-inconsiderable weight of the driver.
I could've ignored any one of those.
Taken together, though, and coupled with the fact that the driver was leaning forward towards the vanity mirror, actually plucking the hairs from her chin with a pair of tweezers, aroused a sudden, overwhelming horror of Life As I Know It and reduced me to a walking mass of revulsion against Mankind.
Sometimes these things happen rather suddenly.
(The Drifters; This Magic Moment)
It wasn't that the car was pulled up to the kerb, blocking foot and cart traffic as shoppers exited the market.
It wasn't that the windows were wide open while the stereo emitted incomprehensible bleating voices and the rhythmic backbeat of what I believe is called R & B.
It wasn't that the car sagged on the occupied driver's side presumably with the not-inconsiderable weight of the driver.
I could've ignored any one of those.
Taken together, though, and coupled with the fact that the driver was leaning forward towards the vanity mirror, actually plucking the hairs from her chin with a pair of tweezers, aroused a sudden, overwhelming horror of Life As I Know It and reduced me to a walking mass of revulsion against Mankind.
Sometimes these things happen rather suddenly.
(The Drifters; This Magic Moment)
29 March, 2011
Cat Tales
...pusscat's read all the papers/ seen the movie and knows/ all the streets lead to somewhere/ and the pavement's gold....
Cat stories, to balance the knitting. Or maybe not.
We have the reverse of 'stuff on my cat' at our house. Clear surfaces? Check. Sunny windowsills? Check. Cozy comforter-covered beds? Check. Empty laps? Check.
Where's the cat?
On our stuff.
Given the choice between counter and computer, table and a pile of papers, chair to himself or one with a stack of magazines, bet you can guess which he'll choose.
We've finally learned to leave the copy/scan/fax machine in the OFF position, because of the CopyCat in our house. We had way, way too many furbutt photocopies. Who am I kidding? One is too many.
***
It's just before Easter, 2009. Hawk pulls into the Dana lot, where he leaves the BigTruck.
"Boy am I glad to see you!" says one of the truck-industry-support-folk. "You're an animal lover, right? C'mere, I wanna show you something."
Hawk is wary, but co-operative.
"We call him Trouble, but he's a loverboy, really. You gotta meet him."
He puts a skinny black kitten into my husband's arms. Hawk holds the cat face-up, and rubs his chest and tummy.
The kitten blinks yellow lamplight eyes and begins to purr.
A girl in the office had noticed an abandoned cat hanging around her home, and had put out food for it. Her mother had a fit, declaring that they already had one cat to feed, and that was enough. The girl captured the cat and brought it to the truckyard where, presumably, it survived on scraps leftover from lunches. But the Easter holiday was coming, and no one would be at the yard. And then there were the large actual feral cats. The truckyard folk feared for Trouble's life.
Hawk listens, and glances down at the cat in question. It has fallen asleep.
The first notice I have of an addition to our household is my husband's voice telling the kids (outside in the yard, playing on an unseasonably sunny day) that he has a friend he wants them to meet.
"But you have to be careful- he gets scared by loud noises."
Oh, great. He's brought home some drunk homeless guy.
"And he needs a bath. But I think you'll like him."
Okay, so now I'm prepared for a near-starving black dog. But it's this tiny tuxedoed cat wrapped in a dirty towel. Hawk engages in the aforementioned bathing activity.
Cat emerges clean, notably calm, and after an energetic rub with a towel, purring. And he has one more surprise for us.
This cat has extra toes.
Extra toes!
(Adam Ant; Puss 'N Boots)
Cat stories, to balance the knitting. Or maybe not.
We have the reverse of 'stuff on my cat' at our house. Clear surfaces? Check. Sunny windowsills? Check. Cozy comforter-covered beds? Check. Empty laps? Check.
Where's the cat?
On our stuff.
Given the choice between counter and computer, table and a pile of papers, chair to himself or one with a stack of magazines, bet you can guess which he'll choose.
We've finally learned to leave the copy/scan/fax machine in the OFF position, because of the CopyCat in our house. We had way, way too many furbutt photocopies. Who am I kidding? One is too many.
***
It's just before Easter, 2009. Hawk pulls into the Dana lot, where he leaves the BigTruck.
"Boy am I glad to see you!" says one of the truck-industry-support-folk. "You're an animal lover, right? C'mere, I wanna show you something."
Hawk is wary, but co-operative.
"We call him Trouble, but he's a loverboy, really. You gotta meet him."
He puts a skinny black kitten into my husband's arms. Hawk holds the cat face-up, and rubs his chest and tummy.
The kitten blinks yellow lamplight eyes and begins to purr.
A girl in the office had noticed an abandoned cat hanging around her home, and had put out food for it. Her mother had a fit, declaring that they already had one cat to feed, and that was enough. The girl captured the cat and brought it to the truckyard where, presumably, it survived on scraps leftover from lunches. But the Easter holiday was coming, and no one would be at the yard. And then there were the large actual feral cats. The truckyard folk feared for Trouble's life.
Hawk listens, and glances down at the cat in question. It has fallen asleep.
The first notice I have of an addition to our household is my husband's voice telling the kids (outside in the yard, playing on an unseasonably sunny day) that he has a friend he wants them to meet.
"But you have to be careful- he gets scared by loud noises."
Oh, great. He's brought home some drunk homeless guy.
"And he needs a bath. But I think you'll like him."
Okay, so now I'm prepared for a near-starving black dog. But it's this tiny tuxedoed cat wrapped in a dirty towel. Hawk engages in the aforementioned bathing activity.
Cat emerges clean, notably calm, and after an energetic rub with a towel, purring. And he has one more surprise for us.
This cat has extra toes.
Extra toes!
(Adam Ant; Puss 'N Boots)
15 March, 2007
Compensation, Anyone?
...He's the special god son in anybody's land/ hey, hey, hey, hey, hey....
Someone finally moved into the house at the top of my street, the one that stood vacant for a year and a half after the silent little crone moved away/died, then it burned, then stood vacant and untouched for another six months, then was gutted and rehabbed, then was put up for sale, then stood vacant for another nine months.
The yard no longer holds the red-and-white realtor's sign. It sports instead a large cage containing a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull. There is a Harley chained to the back porch, and a filthy Ford pickup out front.
I think I don't have to wonder about the gender of the inhabitant.
Or the size of his penis.
(Macho Man; The Village People)
Someone finally moved into the house at the top of my street, the one that stood vacant for a year and a half after the silent little crone moved away/died, then it burned, then stood vacant and untouched for another six months, then was gutted and rehabbed, then was put up for sale, then stood vacant for another nine months.
The yard no longer holds the red-and-white realtor's sign. It sports instead a large cage containing a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull. There is a Harley chained to the back porch, and a filthy Ford pickup out front.
I think I don't have to wonder about the gender of the inhabitant.
Or the size of his penis.
(Macho Man; The Village People)
26 February, 2007
One Item
...just enough of that sticky stuff/to hold the seams of your fine blue jeans....
Skintight hiphugger sequin-embellished bellbottom camoflauge trousers.
(Worn by a bleached-blonde crackwhore who looks fifty but is probably thirty. With brown platform wedge espadrille sandals.)
(Velcro Fly; ZZ Top)
Skintight hiphugger sequin-embellished bellbottom camoflauge trousers.
(Worn by a bleached-blonde crackwhore who looks fifty but is probably thirty. With brown platform wedge espadrille sandals.)
(Velcro Fly; ZZ Top)