She? and what she knew … we’ll get to that.  But first, wha gwan a la casa baytoonawdaw …

Slev & da Rox watch the SunTea Brewin’.  Broodin’?  Does a watcht pawt ever boil?  May a Moody Baby Doom a Yam? (i borrerrd thet frum Bela Fleck, a palindrome sawng).

I made up a palindrome once.  Maybe it’ll fit in, somewhere, nicely, some day.  Probably not.

A big windstorm swept through our place over a week ago.  Among the usual tree branches and trash cans donated to downwind neighbors (and inheriting similar from houses upwind) the inuk-thingy in the middull of the yard blew over.

I started to rebuild it last weekend.  I mentioned to Betty that I’d been considering quadripedal inunnguaqs (except that particular werd applies to “human-like”) — or inukshuk.  “Why not start now, with this one?” she said.

I’ll build another, as soon as.  Prob’ly ain’t obvious, but I have a toadull amphibious aspect in mind.

View from opposite dye-erexion.

The people who built our house, almost 60 years ago! were the only inhabitants ’til we acquired it some 20 years ago.  Yeah, “my, how time flies” — or the maggots self-propagate, or whatever.  Anyhow, the lady of the house took pride in her roses.  Won ribbons at the county fair.  It’s amazing the roses persevere, regardless and definitely IN SPITE OF our continuing benign neglect.  Above is just about the last rose of the season.

There aren’t many pixures of Terry, or sometimes “Serena.”  Terry struts down the walk and by choice/volition doesn’t get out much. (At first I didn’t notice the Inuk-of-the-Lower-Yard, at top).

No-one’s gettin’ in the lower level door without this doorbell ringin’.  Or, more probably, a lotta tail-waggin’ and droolin’ from Doolie.

Bruce is about to attack a pile of dandelion leaves.  A new era, in whatever form it’ll manifest we have no idea, is underway, in that I discovered Bruce likes certain kinds of DOG-FOOD.  (I didn’t know that ’til today).

Dandelion devourment.

milli hangin’ with “the bird”

This is one bird, the only bird on the premises, which the cats usually leave alone.  Da bird is ensuring that the flower-planter-box on the north side of the house continues to be inhospitable to flowers, as it likes to lounge in the safety and comfort many afternoons there.

Earlier today (mercifully NOT pixured) I ran a 5k race and failed yet again at what has become my only goal in any race –> DON’T set a new P W (for non-runners: “personal worst” — slowest time ever).  I smashed my previous PW.  But I’m still, barely (barelier) sub-8.  Then … Betty bought a new bed (to replace the one we’ve had for 20-plus years) and to prepare for the delivery in a few days, we spent a few hours clearing, cleaning, re-arranging, cleaning, tossing stuff out, un-re-arranging, consolidating and, while we’re at it, put up new curtains and hardware over some windows.  The heavy lifting was done by two of Betty’s college life-guard swimming buddies who moved the old bed and all appertunances thereto to the garage.  You don’t want any pixures of that, do you?

Retreating back in time, I went into the secret laboratory and brought an old essay back from the crypt.  Not quite a blast? (more like old w(h)ine) from the passed.

blorg of the least beast high on fermented yeast?  or —

 She knew the nagual, and the nagual knew her.

okeh… how’s that for the start of the book?  depends.  if i conjured up 300-some pages to go with it, great.  however, the never-ending downward spiral seemingly is infinite.  sigh.

i do NOTHING well.  that is, i’m really good at nothing.  everything, or anything — for that matter — i’m not so good at.

i aspire to be mediocre at various things.  golf:  mediocrity would be a step up.  hockey:  gosh, i’d like to improve two or three steps to become merely mediocre.  home-improvement projects:  well, i think mediocrity is within reach, but it slips away, usually.

i am good at a thing, or two, but i can’t really tell anybody.  really.  whether or not i’m right about that, it doesn’t matter.  (yes, it’s like that).

now, back to the realm where mediocrity is a possibly unattainable dream…  a guy i knew about 20 years back joked about starting The Institute of/for the Useless.  he was a/the prime example.  at that time i felt somewhat above useless.  but when talking about it, i had not only empathy, but what i thought were good suggestions for the curriculum.

now, i’m not so sure — about being “above” useless — what with the aspirations for mediocrity and all.

there have got to be good and positive and healthy and spiritual and emotionally-uplifting things going on, for somebody, somewhere.  has to be.  a counterbalance to all this negative stuff.

what negative stuff? someone might ask.  whoa — somebody might question the absolute force of negativity in this whirled?  heh …

ah, fee-yuck.  shuck the attempts to be filosawfeekal.  the flip sighed uv the quoin is apprehension of the open-ness, the un-folding, whirled without comprehensible end, omen.

tomorrow betty wants for us to participate in a double-suicide attempt.  take both horses out on the trail.  maybe it’ll snow, or the good news snoid will slither by with directions to the treasure chest in the forest, or one or the other or both of us will be struck in the head by the effervescent esoteric luminescent tendril of good sense and/or sublime intelligence or in some other fashion have my/our/her I.Q. instantly elevated to at least double what it/they is/are presently.  ah …. (intoned after a good voiding).

suicide? tomorrow, continued:  and in a vain/futile attempt to re-establish a semblance of familial harmony, she has arranged for my brothers and us to go out for dinner tomorrow.  the sort of experiment i/we don’t need.  speekin’ of weird experiments … in a little over a month we venture with the one (non-disparate) brother to las vague-ass to attend the spamalot show.

but, what is it, if anything, i’m looking forward to?  perhaps i’d like to be in the mindset or spirit-set where i really do have to pay complete attention all the time.  not a lascivious, greedy, soul-sucking sort of attention.  attention to … it.

she knew the nagual, and the nagual knew her.

sara didn’t know she knew the nagual.  it was a gradual thing.  the nagual, of course, didn’t care.

Who is “sara”?  she is the protagonist (the main one, other protagonists take the stage from time to time) in my ongoing novel (gnawvell) which will probably never be published.  The way I’m “writing” Sara, she does seem to intuitively know Naggy Wall, but not let it affect her.  It’s like she doesn’t know she knows.  Kind of like how I think I might feel some of the time when I depress the clutch on the personal-interaction-with-the-world mechanism, and just, let, it

rosco betunada, in the year 2007, hadn’t, fundamentally, changed, at all.