Off the rez, one day, the old girl told me when she was small she was put in charge of a flock of sheep. She frowned to herself over that for a moment. I sipped my coffee, keeping a pen in hand, the yellow legal pad near. My mother, she said… My mother would shake me in the morning and say wake up! Wake up! Lazy bones! You have one hour.
I am the speckled egg, the nest in the breeze, your feet on the ground, and the hole in your sleeve. – Lady Villareal There was once a house set upon the edge of a very dark forest. In this house lived two children, Marta and Rico. They so loved one another that whenever they were apart they could only be sad. One day their father told his Marta and Rico he must leave for a time to attend pressing business abroad.
It’s hard for me to edit while on the road. My mind just isn’t there. But here is a draft of a story I started a long time ago. I hope you enjoy. The old neighborhood, long paling in the shadow of greater Los Angeles, was reduced to two blocks in length and occupied only one side of Figueroa. It was the crumbling bastian of homes whose architecture remembered yet street-car bells clanging, watermelon farms and barefoot walks, ferris-wheel nights, and sunday matinees, in what must have once seemed the endless youth of summertime.
Be it near or in a land far, far, away – be it short or long ago as once ever was, Purple Hippo grew bored with the generous circumference of her purple-ness. Therefore and by second-day free shipping, she caused a number of packages to arrive at the door. Soon after, standing in front of the hall mirror, surrounded by open boxes, tissue paper, packing peanuts, and other intermediary stuff, Purple Hippo turned this way and that.
Ladies, when it comes to an agreeable evening on the town complete with dance and light conversation, a Troder holds the least promise of all possible partners. You might go so far as to call one impossible for anything but realizing all new depths in miserable experience. It can’t be helped. Even a rock has more pizazz. But if you don’t know this already, you don’t know a Troder. In short they are the very definition of gnarly, uncouth and boring, tossed together and served at room temperature upon a bed of nasty sauce.
In the Land of Manana tomorrow knows best and is never rushed. That is why it might take five, six days, or more, for tomorrow to ever show up. Even so, never on the Sabbath. There are those who take this inexact passage of time as a personal affront to their dignity. Directly they petition the locals that tomorrow always follow today, along with a few other nit-picks. Take a cook who knows how to make good with what she has – who measures out the constituent parts making up a meal with a pinch of this and a shake of that, and more, by the cupped palm of her hand – giving expression through taste and smell and adjustment, fitting love and nourishment.
Pictures to come. I’ve just started on a long bicycle journey while on this fundraiser. The goal is to raise a bit over $6000.00. Much thanks to you who have contributed. To those who’d like to pitch in any amount helps. I will be on the road for about as long as needed to raise enough to land somewhere and carry on the work. I am willing to put myself out there.