birds & bridges

reading
(text available at an additional charge)

weather
pretty, sunny January

threes

Build a house of amaryllis petals, sail in a boat constructed of sonnets, swing on a branch of etymology, bathe in a pool the hue of persimmon, watch the sky light up at the gasp of dusk to deep blood orange, trundle through the amber of fallen leaves, float through clouds glowing golden, on a kite woven of the greenest grass, and land on the deep black sands next to a sapphire lagoon under a canopy of kiwi.



Sing in bird song, the rhythm of heart beats loudly keeping the tempo, the whisper of the wind a lullaby, a wake up call, an anthem. In this land, ride the back of an ostrich to the anarchist's croquet tournament, throw bananas at the contestants, spin around three times over the left shoulder and keep spinning and keep spinning and keep spinning until all vision is a vortex of prisms of colors, palettes of blue, red, yellow, gold, copper, verdigris and the ground underneath gives way and opens into a land under Ali Baba's cave, before the Arabian Nights, earlier than Grimm or Boccaccio or Chaucer or Aesop into a world of primary colors and syncopated sounds where all living creatures move in waltz time and all inanimate beings move in 5/7 with full rests every 37 1/2 weeks, and 1/16 rests every 37 1/2 hours.

On Thursdays everything moves backwards, and on alternating Sundays certain species walk upside down from sunrise to sunset, and eat only peeled fruit. In this land there is no passive tense: everything remains perpetually present and engaged, hearts stay open and minds stay free, deeds echo beliefs, rain falls, kittens pounce, eggs hatch, the sky glows and boats sail from the harbor with full wind and calm seas. The effervescent air percolates through the sparkling water and aerates the circulation, the thoughts, the passions of housewives, fishermen, bakers, grocers, painters, highwaymen, grave diggers, ministers, gardeners.



The newspaper is published three times per week, Monday Wednesday Friday Sunday Tuesday Thursday Saturday repeat in lavender ink upon papyrus, with woodcuts instead of photographs. Monday is business, economics, jobs, Wednesday education, Friday classifieds, Sunday politics, Tuesday cooking and decorating, Thursday science, health, environment, medicine, and Saturday uncategorized miscellany and short fiction. The newspaper delivery boys wear uniforms of vivid citris green, and sing their wares to the populace:
buy the news read the news know the news here today
and back issues are available for half price after each fortnightly series.

Houses painted in dancing seafoam green, red ochre, yellow earth, emerald, cinnamon with avocado trees and rose bushes and clotheslines haphazardly hung with overalls, men's shirts, sheets, underwear, aprons, towels, all dancing to the syncopated 5/7 time of the wind as banners hung from the city hall and the church provide weather reports and predictions.



In February all of the town fills with candles on the second, tea lights, tapers, sconces, pillars carried by a procession of children, from just out of the nursery to courting age, dressed in burgundies, golds, lapis blues, white, walking in a waltz time procession from the town hall past the church around the harbor through the school along main street into the newspaper building, then disbursing, silently, unannounced, to gather at dawn on June 2 and dance and spin and sing and fly kites and wave banners, until spinning over the left shoulder three times and keep spinning and keep spinning and keep spinning



until the twisted kaleidoscope of color suddenly all aligns into a neat RGB Pantone color chart with crisp black borders set against a white field, every sheep, cow, cat, rabbit, tree, flower, brick, stream, rock, leaf, tile, car, tractor colored crisply, shiny as enameled, neatly labeled with 6 character alphanumeric hexes denoting precise shades of grey, heather, sage, celadon, marigold, saffron, crimson, kelly, ultramarine, indigo, cardinal, chartreuse, fuchsia, and the many variations of black. Footprints are crisply demarcated, shadows are sharp, the light from the sun is always the northern light at noon on the vernal equinox, dusk suddenly arriving as tones of neatly delineated grey and daybreak a whirlwind offering of hues and tones of yellow settling into the uncompromising purity of the day.

Tones are equally as crisp, everything neatly modulated on an octave scale and sounding crisply in D major in summer, modulating through C major in autumn, to F major in winter, through C major again in spring. There are no midtones, no jarring dissonance, the sounds of man and nature coexisting if not in a symphony then at the very least in a quiet chamber quartet. Teenagers and toddlers pick up drumsticks, play beats against walls, fences, roads, rocks; lovers whistle and old men hum.




There are no books, no newspapers, no magazines, no theater, only concerts, jams, pick up sessions, operas, smokey blues bars and raves which echo through the city on the nights of the full moon and the new moon, attended by everyone from infancy through dotage, dancing, dancing, dancing, singing, returning home at daybreak to make omelets and orange juice and toast with strawberry jam and black coffee before settling into the primary occupations of mathematics and engineering, accounting and aqueducts designed, built, perfected, maintained, restored, every color precisely noted, every sound precisely tuned, until the next changing of the moon and the dancing dancing dancing which suddenly becomes spinning over the left shoulder three times and keep spinning and keep spinning and keep spinning



until the precise limits of reality become blurred and cloudy again, the world reflected in the shifting upside down focus of a rain puddle on a gray overcast day in the middle of winter where colors are as uncertain and imprecise as decisions and outcomes, where the choices available are bicycled into the market of ideas which may be free or may be controlled by the State, no one is exactly certain, the true workings of the market are murky, murky, murky, but there: decisions, choices, outcomes, ideas, beliefs are bicycled in, strapped to milk crates and fruit boxes behind the riders, arriving from the edges of town and the surrounding suburbs and the nameless countryside, everything a hodge-podge gathered on downtown streets and alleyways and sold, haggled, bartered, forced upon buyers and bystanders and visitors to the market.

The product is as vague as the color of the sky, where the ephemera of life runs from dishwater gray to dingy beige to weary taupe to faded black, the colors echoed again and again and again in the clothing, hair, faces, cars, horses, dogs, houses of the people and the city and the town, as far as the eye can see, dusk lit by incandescent lamps the same unconvincing shade of light as from the overcast daylight sky, until pushed and pulled in the market place sent spinning around a corner by the force of the crowd and spin over the left shoulder three times and keep spinning and keep spinning and keep spinning




and wake up to the flicker of a lamp and the beeping of an alarm and the prodding of a cat hungry for breakfast, to watch dawn break through the clouds and reflect off of the trees etched in snow on the mountain, strong coffee and the hum of morning commutes.

---

reading
from MLK:
        Everybody has the Blues.
      Everybody longs for meaning.
      Everybody needs to clap hands and be happy.
      Everybody longs for faith.

full text: Opening address to the 1964 Berlin Jazz festival

weather
a Cheshire moon glowing low in the sky

the beloved particular

The setting:
A house, late afternoon. The house is standard issue Victorian vernacular, without a turret or widow's walk, but perhaps with some stained glass work in a downstairs window. The grass has not been mowed particularly recently, but is not quite so bedraggled as to attract undue criticism from the neighbors; a window box holds petunias.

The scene:
The living room, a large, rectangular room, with a fireplace on the far, narrow wall. The only piece of furniture is a horsehair sofa that is shedding hair, has a broken spring or two, was damaged by a housecat at sometime in the past, and whose surface shows evidence of spilled wine and coffee, and extinguished cigarettes. On the floor next to the sofa is an overflowing ash tray in green glass, and underneath the sofa are a pair of high heels and a fashion magazine, out of date without being vintage or collectible.

The time:
The present day.

The room is empty. Aside from the fireplace (no fire is lit, no logs are readied), the couch (somewhat the worse for its experiences), the ash tray (overflowing), the shoes (high heels), and the fashion magazine (out of date), the room is completely empty. The floors are bare wood, scuffed, bleached a lighter color in places, oddly dark in others. There are no rugs, nor is there art on any of the walls. There may at one point have been a floral wallpaper in yellows, but the walls now are painted a drab shade of beige. There is nothing on the mantelpiece except a light layer of dust, and the windows are uncovered.

The room remains empty. The room continues to remain empty for another seven or eight minutes, but the audience is aware through the lowered auditorium lights that the action has begun. No tricks with lighting or music are enacted: seven or eight minutes of quiet inaction. Be careful of noises backstage, lest they carry outward.

After this interval has passed (not to be shorter than seven minutes), footsteps are heard, shuffling bare feet on a staircase, walking in a robust pattern that implies a heaviness, a lack of balance, either from an afternoon nap or an early stiff martini. Slowly the footsteps approach the visible stage, and a woman, hair disheveled, wearing a bathrobe (slightly tattered), with bare feet, enters. She is of indeterminate age, and looks confused and disoriented, a result of sleep or drink, or possibly both.

The woman paces to the fireplace, taps a tattoo on the mantelpiece, walks to the sofa, lights a cigarette, and stands, staring into the middle distance while she finishes the cigarette at a leisurely pace. She then walks over to the window, glances out, returns to the sofa, and perches on the edge. She is obviously uncertain, without being worried. She sighs, leans back, and stares at the ceiling, or towards the fireplace.

Five minutes pass, as her gaze hovers unexpectantly on various points in the room; she shifts slightly, but doesn't get up or attempt to go to sleep. At the end of five minutes, she lights a cigarette, and puts on the high heels from under the couch. They do not match the robe.

Midway through this second cigarette, footsteps again are heard, firm strides, echoing footfalls from workboots. The woman recognizes the steps, glances around the room, but neither rises nor repositions herself on the couch. She looks neither excited nor worried, and in her stillness is a calm coolness more than any other emotion. The owner of the footfalls arrives, a heavy-set man in carpenter's pants and a flannel shirt; he glances towards the woman without any greeting or any other acknowledgment of her presence. He stands, in front of the fireplace, facing the audience, as a stream of emotions cross his face: confusion, irritation, bemusement, and ending with indifferent resignation. He wipes some of the dust from off the mantelpiece, picks up the ashtray, and leaves the room with it.

The woman during this sequence has finished her cigarette in an unhurried manner, and returned to gazing at the ceiling. She makes no effort to interact with the man, and for all intents and purposes has been unaware of his presence in the room. She is not startled when the ashtray is removed, but continues her study of the ceiling. Several minutes later the doorbell rings, but no attempt from inside the house is made to answer the door or interrogate the visitor, who, after ringing a second time, continues on his way. He is not seen by the audience.

The woman rearranges herself on the sofa, sprawling back against the cushions, reading the fashion magazine. It is obviously one she has read before, as she flips through the pages without reading the articles and barely glances at the photography. Though the afternoon light is fading, the living room remains lit, without the woman or the man needing to attend to light switches or lamps. The woman finishes with the magazine, drops it by the side of the couch, kicks off the heels, and settles into a corner of the couch, gazing into the fireplace.

The man returns with the emptied ashtray, a newspaper, and a can of beer; he leaves the ashtray on the floor beside the woman, settles into the other corner of the couch with the newspaper and beer. He reads slowly, his lips forming the words soundlessly, and he pays equal attention to every article on every page. When a front page story is continued on an inner page, he sets his beer on the floor, refolds the paper, and finishes that article before returning back to the original page. His only expression is deliberate concentration; there is no emotional reaction to any of the stories. When he has completed an entire section, he returns to the beginning to read the advertisements. He pays equal attention to the sports scores, the real estate ads, the job announcements, the garage sale listings, but he only glances briefly at the stock exchanges. As he finishes each section, he refolds it neatly and stacks it on the floor.

During this time, the woman resumes smoking, and looks at the man on the other end of the sofa. She could read the articles on the reverse side of the newspaper, but doesn't care to, and her study of the man is more of a glance at a lizard in a terrarium than anything else. Her smoking is not quite chain smoking, her movements are too lethargic and not nervy enough for it to be an unconscious stress release; more, it is an automatic reflex of which she herself is unaware. When the man reaches the sports pages, she rises from the couch, and moves to the window, looking out impassively.

It is now night outside, though the living room remains evenly lit as before. As the man finishes the sports section and prepares to read the minutes of the city counsellor's meeting, the woman suddenly squares her shoulders, moves determinedly to the sofa, puts on the high heels, and exits the room. The man does not react to this sudden departure.

Footsteps (the click of high heels on wood) can be heard off stage, receding, returning, assuredly striding, a flurry of doors opening and closing, and then the woman returns to the living room. Her hair and clothing remain unchanged, but she has put on lipstick, picks up the fashion magazine, and sits on the edge of the windowsill, paying more attention to it than during her previous reading. The man has moved on to the lifestyle section and is carefully studying the comics, smiling to himself when he comes across a particularly touching one. His face shows a moment of disappointment as he looks over the crossword puzzle, as it is not as foreign as the stock exchange listings but every bit as incomprehensible; as he reaches the end of the section, he finishes his beer, neatly folds the paper and sets it under the sofa, sprawls out, and falls asleep.

The woman remains at the windowsill, reading from light from the street, as the living room lights dim.

--FIN--

{what happens when Harold Pinter is commissioned to write the screenplay for The Others.}

---

reading top google keywords for DYP! (poem form by Pippi):
new life policy
notes drink december pudding
november past coffee
april october aubergine
due car step
love missed postcard
lost

weather cold frigid bitter brittle windy crusts of snow stay inside eat carbs and dairy and sleep weather

holiday

Who's in charge here? Anyone? Are there elders, wise men, sages, generals, grandmothers, child savants, guard dogs, anyone at all who has stepped onto the soapbox labeled Responsibility, the platform marked Decisiveness, placed their hands upon the steering wheel transporting the present into the future? Or is this room, this building, this town, this state, this country, this continent, this hemisphere governed by randomness, chance, accident, and the collective subconscious?

If the collective subconscious is the final level of culpability, then perhaps the chaos of reality owes its continuation to a force mightier than human will, human greed, human ambition, or human lethargy, and what force could that be? There is the Romantic assumption, Nature, the wild, the untamed wind, storms, hail, locusts, earthquakes, eclipses, filled with the patterns of hibernation and the unknown of volcanoes; there is the medieval assumption that is the strings of Nature are manipulated by God; there is the ancient view that all things are foretold by the Heavens. But a pox on all those mythologies; this room remains overflowing with people who refuse to take responsibility for their own actions, much less anyone else's or the collective's.

Here's my shiny new badge. Note the text in the middle: it says Make Way! Not that Make Way! has any affiliation with any political, religious, institutional, or organizational entity; not that it is a command or an affirmation; merely that the presence of a shiny silver badge with anything on it compels respect. With my badge I also wear the requisite funny hat to add an air of responsibility, and in this case by my side are a pair of dueling pistols, suitable for all occasions. I'm a mercenary decision maker, showing up vigilante style whenever the collective subconscious starts taking liberties with human entropy, and I'll strike a match under their boots, set off fire crackers, flood Main Street, put up a vaudeville show, juggle infants from the roof of the courthouse, write messages in clouds, mis-deliver postal mail and provide anonymous tips to newspapers just to get the wheels turning again.

Entropy, that's a mess, solidified lava over Pompeii, mold growing from the insides of minds through to the mildew of rotten houses and the kudzu on trees, termites eating out the framework and tables wobbling on three legs, piles of pencils with broken points, unraked leaves, dripping faucets, clocks with hands paralyzed at tea time, moth eaten sweaters, stalled legislation, year old eggs on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, cobwebs on brains and blood turned to molasses. That's where the Make Way! vigilante appears on the scene, marching in to fife and drums with a dust mop, vacuum cleaner, original thought, seismic warning system, snow plough, stampede, sometimes just a good old fashioned exorcism just to get things moving again.

That's how the earth keeps spinning: it has nothing to do with gravitational pull or magnetism; rather, the planet is the wheel that the hamsters of humanity keep spinning by constant movement, shifting loyalties, changing passions, frantic worry, compulsive hand washing, and the cycle of self-improvement. Sure, Newton had some interesting ideas, brought some theories into the open, inspired generations of high energy physicists and astrophysicists and geologists and math teachers, but in the end, he was wrong; that apple fell from the tree because it had grown tired of the view from the branch and was ready for a change, and the 9.8 meters per second per second that gravitational energy is purported to exert on all objects regardless of mass is so much theoretical bullshit. Pardon the colloquialism, of course, but Sir Isaac was full of it. When apples decline to grow tired of views from branches, then restless school boys are sent in to lend a hand with the process, and when restless school boys are tuned out from pharmaceuticals and technology then migrant workers take up the slack.

And all of this keeps the dear old lady Earth spinning giddily about on her axis, pirouetting her way around the sun and flirting coquettishly with the moon, winking all the while at meteors and comets, seducing some into falling stars, celestial fireworks just to keep things interesting. So here I am, shiny badge, funny hat, dueling pistols, making sure that things get done, just to keep the operations on schedule. There was a bit of a scare, there, what with complacency enabled by credit cards and then the fear of universal Zen Buddhism slowing everything down, but those were easily resolved hurdles and the population is back to squawking at its regular rate.

Of course, it might be time to spur someone to change a few lightbulbs, mop the kitchen floor, iron the laundry, and walk the dog, but that can wait until tomorrow; it's been a long day, what with inspiring dictators and whispering conspiracies and delivering newspapers and producing commercials and teaching salsa lessons and performing heart bypass surgery and rescuing kittens from trees and shining silver and making New Year's resolutions and roasting marshmallows and singing spirituals and starting labor riots and squeezing orange juice and toppling chief executives of major corporations and devaluing currencies and freezing citrus groves and playing with dolphins and writing thank you notes and skipping rope and learning long division, so those other tasks can perhaps wait until I've finished this cup of tea and paid the bills and attended a yoga class and washed the car and fed the horse and collected the eggs from the chicken coop and flown a kite while ice skating down the canal.

The collective subconscious keeps peering over the cliff marked Entropy: Beware of Falling Rocks and High Winds; and the collective subconscious has a nasty habit of behaving lemming-style, so I'll probably stay on this contract a while longer, keep things moving along until that fascination with entropy changes to something else, like poetry or wood working or mechanical engineering or political maneuvering or subsistence farming, really anything other than that seductive lethargy that descended and sapped human will, mellowed ambition, quieted greed. Even lethargy can't go on forever, though it may put up a good fight, but with this badge and these pistols, it doesn't stand a chance.

Another Napoleon or Alexander the Great or Ivan the Terrible is around somewhere, all I need to do is find and inspire him, then I can take a bit of a breather, go down to the Virgin Islands and drink funny beverages with little paper umbrellas. It's just a matter of time.

---

reading
Checked out Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy; upon gazing at the 2 1/2 inch thick spine (500+ pages), the librarian automatically extended the due date, by an extra month. Optimistic for all of us, especially for a book on melancholy.

weather
It's January. I'm reading a 500+ page book entitled The Anatomy of Melancholy. You figure it out.

fragments

a continuation of an interview with myself

Twenty Questions

. . .

4. Accidental or intentional?

5. Business or pleasure?

6. Chicken or fish?

7. Truth or dare?

8. Is it covered by insurance?

. . .

Twenty Answers
{work in progress}

4. Accidental or intentional?

With so many of one's intentions visible only through events that, taken separately, would be considered accidents, how can a narrative be woven?

This is the story of the bus ride to Lechmere on a rainy winter evening, a taste of the wideness of the unseen world; this is the story of a freshman year remembered for being caught in innumerable rainstorms without an umbrella, puddle-sloshing barefoot across the Quad; this is the story of a yellow umbrella that became two pink silk umbrellas, one of which arrived by Christmas post in a stormy year of grad school, that in turn became two slightly battered black umbrellas which call forth for replacing; this is the story of a stolen paperback, a missed train station, the newspaper left on the adjacent seat with a story on page D2 about a man convicted of investment fraud from my home town. This is a story of guinea pigs, Scrabble games, soul mates, and canasta; but none of this was intentional, it is a narrative of inadvertent incidents and accidents through which are read the story of a life.

This I permitted to occur; this I did nothing to stop; this I overlooked; this I forgot, and forgot again, and forgot in perpetuity until the forgetting became itself a habit, an inseparable mode of behavior full of intent for all its claims to the contrary. Do I know my own intentions? Are they honorable? Do they stand firm against temptation, damp days, overcast skies, chocolate layer cake? Can any intention avoid the path of the preferred accident, the decision made by the subconscious in choice of a life other than that signposted on the road ahead: wisdom, 310 miles. Happiness, 94 miles. Serenity, 62 miles. Joy, 40 miles. Coffee shop, tourist shop, shoe store, next exit, and off the highway we go: pulled by an empty gas tank, a flat tire, a grumbling stomach, or an innate desire to allow the detours to define the journey, rather than following the intended road.

5. Business or pleasure?

That's just it: where is the dividing line? This book inspired and seduced the creative mind, although it is not able to be traced to the paid work completed in the following 48 hours or 48 days. This task was financially remunerative, but I whistled while I worked and came home with a suntan and a glow of satisfaction. Alternatively: this arduous journey brought neither financial nor creative fulfillment, left my heart sore and my bank account empty: from which side of the ledger shall it be deducted?

When all of life is so firmly enmeshed that a tree full of the silhouettes of migration and the sharpness of sunshine reflecting from the brick wall are as necessary to the toolkit as hammer, ruler, pencil: then what of business? What of pleasure?

Dear customs agent, I dock on your shores to take measurements of your Cathedrals, to chart the weight bearing properties of flying buttresses, to perform chemical analyses of the pigments used in stained glass, to calculate how high a belfry may tower and how to design a dome. But somewhere between surveying and geometry, between graph paper and long division, a movement there, just in my breast, and I ceased to be an architect, a historian, an engineer, a surveyor, and fell in love, became an apostle, heard a chorus of singing, fell into a rapture, tumbled into ecstasy.

See, here are my charts, my blueprints, my notations, my reference books; here are my drawings, my credentials; and yet within me there is a burble of life somehow released or taken up residence, and my vision has shifted perspective, everything become curved or topsy turvy. Such is love, rooted in business, exploding in pleasure, and dear Sir -- you may tally it however you see fit.

6. Chicken or fish?

Essays on adventures in attempted vegetarianism.

While I am not the only vegetarian I know who eats
        fish chicken pork beef;
Neither am I the only vegan I know who cooks with milk, cheese, eggs. So conflicted are dietary choices: butter is and always will be a part of my larder, just as products based in soy will always terrify me due to their estrogen mimicry. Eggs conceptually disgust me: the undeveloped reproductive progeny of a bird (or dinosaur); but their use in baking is only surpassed by their use in eggs Benedict. Which brings in ham, the other white meat, and bacon, which technically isn't a meat at all, just salt and fat.

So an honest account of my life as a vegan with boundary issues embraces not just last week's sushi for breakfast or the gallons of holiday eggnog deemed consumable by the combined forces of family and brandy or the holiday pulled pork, three separate pieces of pig marinated for 48 hours then smoked (yes, in the snow) for six hours, and if Cornish hens are technically baby turkeys then that is out, as is the Thanksgiving duck roasted to perfection. Perhaps we should agree to overlook the towering golden meringue on top of the blueberry pie, or the fresh whipped cream on the apple pie. Even the coconut milk tapioca had eggs, and this powdered almost-hot-chocolate which I'm drinking in front of the wood stove undoubtedly contains "milk solids" in powder form, processed somewhere in China.

For this I gave up milk in my coffee, cheese in casseroles? Will I ever bake another blissfully soaring souffle? Do I have any dietary scruples left, as my freezer teeming with black beans and rice, kale, broccoli, summer peaches and blueberries taunts my best intentions to keep happy and healthy on brown rice, baked apples, green tea; my goal of being a part of the culinary solution immediately disappearing with the arrival of a new cookbook, a recipe passed from a friend.

Is there any consistency to this, a life of freshly squeezed orange juice and oatmeal followed by French onion soup, gobs of cheese competing with gobs of bread for my fickle heart? Every morning, a clean slate, a fresh start, the black coffee, only to have resolve waver and falter before cream of mushroom soup, goat Gouda, espresso con panna, grilled salmon.

Dietary precepts, I agree with you all. My heart trembles, aches, palpitates as I order the rare steak; my conscience quakes with the knowledge of overfished oceans when we feast on sashimi -- but, oh!, music may be the food of love, but I'll have the roasted pheasant, please.

7. Truth or dare?

I dare you to tell the truth. Double dare you. Double DOG dare you.

Chicken! I knew you wouldn't do it, too scared to reveal who you are instead of who you want me to think you are. Bwaaack!

Who was the first girl you kissed? Who broke your heart? Did you ever beat someone up, just because you could? Did you steal a candy bar, a book, a car, a credit card, money from your mother's wallet? Did you kick a dog, slash a tire, cheat on math homework, forge a signature, lie, lie, and lie again, ingeniously and without qualms? Did you curse at the dinner table, put glue in the shampoo bottle, break those dishes on purpose, run the car into a tree, gossip about the new kid, destroy the English textbook, tell stories about the gym coach, hide the street clothes of kids during athletic practice? Do you edit your photo albums, call your parents, send thank you notes to spinster aunts, run over squirrels, sabotage friendships, pad out your resume, tell tales that could almost be true?

You won't play this game? Fine, then, climb on the table and dance a jig during the moment of silence at a funeral, place a personal ad for the romantic acquisition of your dreams, swim across the Channel, parachute out over the mountains, write a letter protesting the Republican military industrial complex to every state and national representative in every level of bureaucracy, start a community garden in an abandoned lot, growing sunflowers and beans with neither ownership rights nor permits, dance in the graveyard to live accordion accompaniment from midnight to dawn, construct all of da Vinci's designs, hitchhike to Yellowstone, do a spot of drug running between NYC and Montreal, gain a cosmetology degree, take a job on the third shift at a local industrial site.

No? You decline to accept the dare? Are we to return to the truth? You didn't like it last time, refused to play. Okay. Truth. Do you love me? Did you love your college sweetheart, or was she just pretty, and different? Did you drown the kitten, sabotage the plumbing, cancel the trip reservations, change the dental appointment, consider changing your name, father a child; did you tell the truth? Did you hide, omit, elide, pause at an inopportune moment, neglect, alter, super-impose, reconsider, waver, decline, and step away?

No? I don't believe you. I never did.

8. Is it covered by insurance?

Rarely requested insurance riders available for an additional fee and following completion of the attached certification, waiver, notary public stamp, medical and psychological evaluation, and payment of premium in full for the forthcoming seven (7) year period.

Policy 323: Against bad haircuts.
Deductible applies. Please see agent for list of applicable salons participating in the program.

Policy 92: Psychological trauma caused by snakebites, non-poisonous.
Please note that Policy 93, Psychological trauma caused by snake bites, poisonous, is not currently available in all markets.

Policy 140 (a): Bad coffee, unproductivity.
        (b) Bad coffee, buzz.
Limited to pre-approved participating barristas.

Policy 29: Psychological damage caused by sending communication while intoxicated.

Policy 30: Psychological damaged caused by receiving communication sent while intoxicated.

Policy 71: Extension of all warranties, explicit and implied, for a period of fourteen (14) weeks.

Policy 56: Physical reaction to receipt of vaccination (mandatory).

Policy 57: Physical reaction to receipt of vaccination (voluntary).

Policy 209: Receipt of ticket from police officer due to
        (a) erratic driving;
        (b) distracted driving;
        (c) driving under the influence;
        (d) surpassing of posted speed limits;
Please be aware that this policy has been suspended nationwide.

Policy 160: Against broken nails within 48 hours following acquisition of a manicure.

Policy 106: Against lost homework assignments.

Policy 48: Against flat tires (puncture).

Policy 49: Against flat tires (blow-out).

Policy 21 (a): Against becoming lost in the woods;
        (b) against becoming lost in the mountains;
        (c) against becoming lost in downtown Boston;
        (d) against becoming lost at sea.
Please be aware that certain geographic restrictions apply.

Policy 12 (a) Against becoming pregnant.
        (b) Against impregnation of another.
Medical examination and further deductibles may apply.

Policy 180: Against being kidnapped, involuntarily having one's organs harvested for sale, and being held for ransom.
Please be aware that certain geographic restrictions apply.

Policy 179: Against involuntarily having one's organs harvested fr sale.
Medical examination may apply.

Policy 17: Against purchasing a car which is discovered to be stolen.

Policy 12: Against food sickness
        (a) at home;
        (b) locally;
        (c) following consumption of raw or undercooked meat, fish, shellfish, or eggs;
        (d) while traveling;
        (e) while traveling in countries outside the U.S., Canada, and E.U.

Policy 51: Against contraction of athlete's foot in a public gym, sauna, shower, or pool.

Policy 88: Against having embarrassing photographs or film clips involuntarily made public.

Policy 94 (a): Against introducing a significant other to one's parents and / or family.
        (b) Against meeting a significant other's parents and / or family.
Relationship subject to prequalification by an approved medical health professional.

Policy 101 (a): Against the need for a professional licensed plumber outside regular business hours.
        (b) Against the need for a professional licensed plumber on major holidays.
        (c) Against the need for a professional licensed plumber outside regular business hours on major holidays.

Policy 37 (a): Against a dead car battery.
        (b) Against missing a medical, dental, or optometric appointment due to a dead car battery.
        (c) Against missed work due to a dead car battery.
        (d) Against a missed flight due to a dead car battery.

Policy 38 (a): Against a missed alarm due to a power outage.
        (b) Against missing a medical, dental, or optometric appointment due to a missed alarm due to a power outage.
        (c) Against missed work due to a missed alarm due to a power outage.
        (d) Against a missed flight due to a missed alarm due to a power outage.

---

reading
The Miracle of Mindfulness / Thich Nhat Hanh

weather
a waning gibbous
a gentle snowfall
and a bonfire, whose sparks leap up to meet the snow