One of my favorite pastimes is singing in my car with my windows down and stereo up.
When I do this, it’s usually not to the radio, unless I’m telling you how I’ll be there after the boys of summer have gone. Usually it’s to a carefully laid out cd I’ve burned, as my tape deck turn iPod jack died over a year ago. The most socially acceptable tracks I pick for this, I suppose, are the tracks from Girl Talk’s All Day album (although shouting “you about to get ran the f**k over” at the top of my lungs in the open air, I worry slightly about offending people, but it’s nothing anyone hasn’t heard before).
I was grinned at by an older woman today during an “All of My Love” heartwrencher. I’m not sure it was mean-spirited or anything, but I smiled right back and kept on yelling about who I’d give the fullness of my heart unto.
The next song to blare and belt to was “Since U Been Gone,” a modern classic. Genres aside, that song is truly a masterpiece, and I defy anyone not to get excited and sing along with that chorus. Whether it’s Kelly rocking me or I’m “under da sea,” I’m going to sing my heart out if the mood strikes me. I don’t care who sees me or hears me sing. At least when I’m in my car, that is.
It feels good. Seems like I can breathe for the first time. Guess I’m just moving on.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The Silence
I dream about the moment my heart stops beating.
Will I notice? Will I feel the blood thicken and slow in my veins?
Or will it sneak up on me, until I can do nothing but welcome the silence.
I picture the gun in my mouth, the taste of sulfur on my tongue.
Can I do it? Will I do it? Night after night I’m here.
The sweat makes my finger slip on the trigger. That’s it. I won’t. Not tonight.
But her gun is a bottle. She’s the waking dead. The walking headache.
Eyes puffy, throat sore with a constant nasal drip. She’ll drink again tonight.
And I’ll dream. Wishing not to wake up, wondering where I’ll go.
What the silence is really like, and will I ever know?
I might submit this to the San Diego County Poetry Annual 2011-2012. We'll see.
Will I notice? Will I feel the blood thicken and slow in my veins?
Or will it sneak up on me, until I can do nothing but welcome the silence.
I picture the gun in my mouth, the taste of sulfur on my tongue.
Can I do it? Will I do it? Night after night I’m here.
The sweat makes my finger slip on the trigger. That’s it. I won’t. Not tonight.
But her gun is a bottle. She’s the waking dead. The walking headache.
Eyes puffy, throat sore with a constant nasal drip. She’ll drink again tonight.
And I’ll dream. Wishing not to wake up, wondering where I’ll go.
What the silence is really like, and will I ever know?
I might submit this to the San Diego County Poetry Annual 2011-2012. We'll see.
Friday, August 19, 2011
A Game of Thrones
I know it seems trite, but damn, A Game of Thrones (book) is infinitely better than Game of Thrones (series). It's not even close. Not even a little bit.
The show has pretty bad direction, awkward art design, with things being just... not at all how they are in the book, and this habit of awkwardly lifting "key" lines of dialogue from the book and using them as a catch-all for what's supposed to be going on. The action is... adequate? I mean, it's nothing special.
Seems like they did the show on a shoestring budget for being so high profile, and then it seems like they managed to give every aspect of it less than enough to be passable, but not enough for it to be in anyway exceptional.
I bought the book, because everyone around me seemed to be reading it. I saw the first 4 episodes of the show, which comprised around 350-450ish pages of the book, depending on certain details, and took a break for a few months. I read the book in a couple of weeks during my spare time, and it was riveting. Breathtaking. Spectacular. Without a doubt, right up there with The Fellowship of the Ring and The Gunslinger, and the other books that have opened my favorite epic series. (I don't include Harry Potter).
I can't believe the show could suck so hard. Look at what Peter Jackson did with LOTR. If you want to make a movie/show out of a book, follow his advice. Just without the whole 'every time Frodo puts on the ring, Sauron's eye is upon him' thing.
TL;DR - A Game of Thrones (book) is way better than the show. Obviously.
The show has pretty bad direction, awkward art design, with things being just... not at all how they are in the book, and this habit of awkwardly lifting "key" lines of dialogue from the book and using them as a catch-all for what's supposed to be going on. The action is... adequate? I mean, it's nothing special.
Seems like they did the show on a shoestring budget for being so high profile, and then it seems like they managed to give every aspect of it less than enough to be passable, but not enough for it to be in anyway exceptional.
I bought the book, because everyone around me seemed to be reading it. I saw the first 4 episodes of the show, which comprised around 350-450ish pages of the book, depending on certain details, and took a break for a few months. I read the book in a couple of weeks during my spare time, and it was riveting. Breathtaking. Spectacular. Without a doubt, right up there with The Fellowship of the Ring and The Gunslinger, and the other books that have opened my favorite epic series. (I don't include Harry Potter).
I can't believe the show could suck so hard. Look at what Peter Jackson did with LOTR. If you want to make a movie/show out of a book, follow his advice. Just without the whole 'every time Frodo puts on the ring, Sauron's eye is upon him' thing.
TL;DR - A Game of Thrones (book) is way better than the show. Obviously.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Show Me a Place Like Bright Escondido
Show me a place like bright Escondido,
Where the sun splashes, dry breezes blister,
Verdant foothills around seethe and glister,
Take me there if you know, I long to go.
The fields and pastures have been bought and sold,
Asphalt and concrete tear through the valley,
Carving out neighborhoods, streets and alleys,
The land that remains is more precious than gold.
Show me a place like bright Escondido,
Set aside somewhere for the moon to shine.
Give me fields of white sage, scrub oak and pine.
Take me there if you know, I long to go.
Where the sun splashes, dry breezes blister,
Verdant foothills around seethe and glister,
Take me there if you know, I long to go.
The fields and pastures have been bought and sold,
Asphalt and concrete tear through the valley,
Carving out neighborhoods, streets and alleys,
The land that remains is more precious than gold.
Show me a place like bright Escondido,
Set aside somewhere for the moon to shine.
Give me fields of white sage, scrub oak and pine.
Take me there if you know, I long to go.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Ganged Up On By Geese
One of the most butterfly related things I do as a butterfly keeper is feed the butterflies. They drink a nectar made up of primarily sugar water from hexagonal plates, which need to be changed out every day. This is much more time consuming and laborious than one might initially think, and requires hauling a heavy black cart through narrow passageways, across rugged terrain and into the greenhouse.
Normally, this trek goes undisturbed, but recently I've become engaged in a bit of a turf war. There are these two geese who live in the village, and they've decided that their new roosting spot is the path I take to the greenhouse. They've also decided that they absolutely hate the cart. I dunno if it wears opposing colors, forgot to pay their toll or whatever, but they hate this cart. Before this, I'd heard a goose honk, and almost bleat, but never hiss. Everytime that cart goes by, one goose hisses, the other honks.
After finishing up in the greenhouse this morning, it was a little different, though. I was leaving, and through the doorway, I saw one of the geese, and it looked as if it was waiting for me, well, the cart anyway. I opened the door and began to consider how I should approach it without bothering it too much, and I heard this rap-click-tap. Looking down, I saw the other goose right outside the door, at the angle where it opens, attacking the cart. What was the other goose doing? I swear to God it was playing lookout.
I was a bit shaken from this unprovoked assault and closed the door, bringing the cart back. I rap-click-tapped back on the glass, but the goose was undeterred. I thought of radioing for assistance, but didn't want to become a joke.
So I used my big-boy voice.
"Let's go!" I shouted gruffly at the geese. That seemed to get their attention, and I was able to corral them a bit, enough to get to the fork in the path. It was then that my cart was attacked again, and I decided to take the lower route. Apparently the lower path, the long way to my working area, isn't part of their territory, so I escaped, further unmolested.
I've decided I should get one of those signs for my cart, one that says, "Please do not heckle, vex, annoy...the keepers"
Pssh, bullies.
Normally, this trek goes undisturbed, but recently I've become engaged in a bit of a turf war. There are these two geese who live in the village, and they've decided that their new roosting spot is the path I take to the greenhouse. They've also decided that they absolutely hate the cart. I dunno if it wears opposing colors, forgot to pay their toll or whatever, but they hate this cart. Before this, I'd heard a goose honk, and almost bleat, but never hiss. Everytime that cart goes by, one goose hisses, the other honks.
After finishing up in the greenhouse this morning, it was a little different, though. I was leaving, and through the doorway, I saw one of the geese, and it looked as if it was waiting for me, well, the cart anyway. I opened the door and began to consider how I should approach it without bothering it too much, and I heard this rap-click-tap. Looking down, I saw the other goose right outside the door, at the angle where it opens, attacking the cart. What was the other goose doing? I swear to God it was playing lookout.
I was a bit shaken from this unprovoked assault and closed the door, bringing the cart back. I rap-click-tapped back on the glass, but the goose was undeterred. I thought of radioing for assistance, but didn't want to become a joke.
So I used my big-boy voice.
"Let's go!" I shouted gruffly at the geese. That seemed to get their attention, and I was able to corral them a bit, enough to get to the fork in the path. It was then that my cart was attacked again, and I decided to take the lower route. Apparently the lower path, the long way to my working area, isn't part of their territory, so I escaped, further unmolested.
I've decided I should get one of those signs for my cart, one that says, "Please do not heckle, vex, annoy...the keepers"
Pssh, bullies.
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Friday, April 15, 2011
Henry's
I was in Henry's the other day, wearing a hunter green shirt I got from the Roar & Snore team training event we had at work a few days back. It says Wild Animal park on the breast (it's from last season) and has a very large picture of a cheetah on the back. So there's the back story.
I walked through the produce, heading towards the tangelos. The price was four pounds for a dollar, which is reasonable for organic fruit, and the last ones I bought were particularly sweet, so I made a special trip back out for more. On my way towards the check-out stand, I noticed an older woman dropping a box of strawberries. She looked embarrassed and didn't immediately make an attempt to reach down and get them. I wasn't sure if she had a bad back or what, so I reached down and picked them up. I told her she ought to put the box on the loading cart an employee had left behind. I went to walk away and she stopped me.
"Do you know which is a good box to buy?" she asked me.
"Ummm, I'm not sure, I usually just grab the reddest ones," I said kinda laughing.
She looked at me like I had offended her, or not met some kind of certain expectations. She opened her mouth as if to start saying something and stopped, looking quite puzzled.
"Don't you..." she mumbled and trailed off.
I realized what the confusion was.
"Oh, I'm sorry ma'am, I don't work here," I said as politely as I could. And I turned around and left, sure now that she could see the very large cheetah on my back.
When I turned around I was face to face with a portly man, with thick glasses resting on equally thick skin.
"Are you going to be stocking any more pitted prunes?" he asked me.
"Uhhh..." I said, about to break the news to him, too.
"He doesn't work here," the elderly woman now behind me said, informing him of the news.
The man looked down at my shirt, looked up at me, standing there with an oddly apologetic look on my face and kept walking.
I continued to the check-out stand and bought my tangelos. The checker asked me if I worked at the Park, and we chatted a bit about that as I paid.
I walked through the produce, heading towards the tangelos. The price was four pounds for a dollar, which is reasonable for organic fruit, and the last ones I bought were particularly sweet, so I made a special trip back out for more. On my way towards the check-out stand, I noticed an older woman dropping a box of strawberries. She looked embarrassed and didn't immediately make an attempt to reach down and get them. I wasn't sure if she had a bad back or what, so I reached down and picked them up. I told her she ought to put the box on the loading cart an employee had left behind. I went to walk away and she stopped me.
"Do you know which is a good box to buy?" she asked me.
"Ummm, I'm not sure, I usually just grab the reddest ones," I said kinda laughing.
She looked at me like I had offended her, or not met some kind of certain expectations. She opened her mouth as if to start saying something and stopped, looking quite puzzled.
"Don't you..." she mumbled and trailed off.
I realized what the confusion was.
"Oh, I'm sorry ma'am, I don't work here," I said as politely as I could. And I turned around and left, sure now that she could see the very large cheetah on my back.
When I turned around I was face to face with a portly man, with thick glasses resting on equally thick skin.
"Are you going to be stocking any more pitted prunes?" he asked me.
"Uhhh..." I said, about to break the news to him, too.
"He doesn't work here," the elderly woman now behind me said, informing him of the news.
The man looked down at my shirt, looked up at me, standing there with an oddly apologetic look on my face and kept walking.
I continued to the check-out stand and bought my tangelos. The checker asked me if I worked at the Park, and we chatted a bit about that as I paid.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Learn to Yearn?
What vain striving it may be
To try and see what angels see,
As they sit majestically
Upon their clouds in Heaven.
And yet we sit with stalwart gaze
Toward the ethereal haze,
Pondering just what the days
Will be like in Heaven.
And sitting here unhappily,
Looking forward, forgetting we
Often never quite fully
Enjoy the time we're given.
To try and see what angels see,
As they sit majestically
Upon their clouds in Heaven.
And yet we sit with stalwart gaze
Toward the ethereal haze,
Pondering just what the days
Will be like in Heaven.
And sitting here unhappily,
Looking forward, forgetting we
Often never quite fully
Enjoy the time we're given.
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