faces

Regrette won't go out in the rain. I know it must be really painful, holding it in, but she chooses one discomfort over the other and just sits there, looking at me, as if there is something I can do about it. It's raining, I tell her, but it's not my fault. If you've got business to take care of, you've got to take care of it. I say it out loud, because that's what people do. She doesn't understand.

Regrette has one of those faces, the kind that make you feel guilty even if you think she's happy. I think she is always thinking things could be so much better somewhere else, out in the country, chasing rabbits, pooping whenever she felt like it, no questions asked. Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those faces, too.

Velcro

Belle was wearing Velcro shoes when I bumped into her with the dogs. Warden jumped up onto her and she said, "What the f**k!" I said, "Sorry," to the Velcro shoes and when I looked up. Up, up, up, up to the face, I saw Belle and Belle saw me. She said, "Jesus, if it ain't Curt G. Jimenez!" I didn't know what to say, or how to act or, or, or, do anything really. I just thought about that knife. God. How I loved that knife. I wanted that knife. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg for that knife. I didn't, of course, because Belle gave me the finger and stomped off. Goodbye Belle Star. Goodbye, my knife!

Pfft.

Listen. Sometimes it is best to just listen.

Hugs and Kisses

You know what?
If you make something with lots of love, it tastes better! It just does. You don't have to take my word for it! Let me give you a for instance: I made butter today. And I made it with lots of love. I took out the heavy whipping cream and I kissed the carton. Muah. Muah. That's right, kissed the carton of heavy whipping cream. Planted two wet ones on it! I'm not embarrassed to admit such things! Then, I hugged the salt shaker and sprinkled salt into the heavy whipping cream and turned on the food processor. Whir. Whir. Whir. When the butter was formed, I took it up into my hands and hugged it. I squeezed it between my fingers. Let it sit in my hand. I closed my eyes and hugged this butter with so much love, I could practically feel a tiny heart beat inside the butter beating. Ka-thump. Ka-thump. No, it wasn't like it. It was more like, lub-dub. Lub-dub. Yes. It was like that.

Let me tell you how delicious this butter was--very, very delicious. The best butter I've had in a long, long time.

Love the food you make, and it will love. Plain and simple.

curt the adjective

I like that "Curt" has a meaning other than just being who I am. Someone could say "He's curt." to someone else, and he or she might be saying that I am me, or he might be saying that I am "rudely blunt or brief". It makes me feel like I was born with depth, that my birth certificate gave me a touch of ambiguity. Sometimes it makes me want to go out of my way to be curt when I talk to people, or to go out of my way not to be curt, so people might think I'm inappropriately named, or that it is ironic that my name is Curt, since I am not so curt. Today, I felt like living up to my name, so when the man at the coffee shop asked me how I was I said "eh??"obnoxiously and then just ordered my coffee. Then I told him why I was being curt because I felt bad and he told me that once I explained to him what I was doing that I wasn't being curt anymore so it got a little messy in the execution. So I thought about how I had a hard time being curt, and then my mind jumped into thinking about how sometimes I have a hard time being Curt--if you know what I mean--and I was startled when the coffee man told me that my Breve was ready and that I needed to get out of the way so he could help the next person but thanks for telling me about your little game that's very interesting.

I wonder if Preciouses think about this kind of thing. Or Hopes, or Angels. Or Joys or Gays.

Great Scott! (Belatedly)

Write a detective story when you are 12. It will be published in your school newspaper. It is cold where you live and when you are studying for your classes, that is all you will think about, that it is cold. When you are sixteen, you will be expelled from your school. How do you explain your poor grades on the weather? Some things, you just can't explain, you learn. Despite your poor grades, you will attend Princeton. You are bright! It was the weather all along. A war will begin and you will enlist. The war will end. Fall in love. Get engaged. Get your heartbroken when your lover ends the engagement. Write. Write a book and submit it to Scribner's and have it accepted. Your love will resume your engagement. Become friends with other writers. Write a masterpiece. Get rich. Become a celebrity. Your marriage is hot. Your marriage is cold. Write short stories to make money. Write more books. More money. Write an anticipated follow-up novel to your masterpiece. It is a disappointment to most. Work for Hollywood. Drink too much and not enough. Soon too much is never enough. Have a heart attack. Have a massive heart attack while eating a candy bar. Die.

People will talk about you. They will read your novels and your short stories. That cold place you grew up in will boast that you grew up in that cold place. That you were born there. That you wrote your first short story there. And that it was a detective story.

Slow Drip!

Just a slow drip. At best, I think that's all I've got.

Homes used to say, "Curt! Turn on the faucet! Let it run!"

And I would say, with urgency, "Yes! Turn on the faucet! I will, I will!" And I've been trying, for years now to turn on the faucet. But I don't know. Maybe the faucet is on, but there's something wrong with the supply. Maybe somebody forgot to pay the water bill. Maybe the reservoir dried up, or they took down the dam for environmental reasons and the reservoir just isn't there anymore. Where's the water supposed to come from now? Did they think about that?

Lately, I feel like the faucet is on, but the pipes are just empty.

I just read this, from this:

Think of being curled up and floating in the darkness. Even if you could think, even if you had an imagination, would you ever imagine its opposite, this miraculous world? The Asian Taoists called it "10,000 Things". And if the darkness just got darker and then you were dead, what would you care? How would you even know the difference?

I should write like that!

And Raymond Carver said this:

"Writers write, and they write, and they go on writing, in some cases long after wisdom and even common sense have told them to quit. There are always plenty of reasons--good, compelling reasons, too--for quitting, or for not writing very much or very seriously. (Writing is trouble, make no mistake, for everyone involved, and who needs trouble?) But once in a great while lightning strikes, and occasionally it strikes early in the writer's life. Sometimes it comes later, after years of work. And sometimes, most often, of course, it never happens at all. Strangely, it seems, it may hit people whose work you can't abide, an event that, when it occurs, causes you to feel there's no justice whatsoever in the world. (There isn't, more often than not.) It may hit the man or woman who is or was your friend, the one who drank too much, or not at all, who went off with someone's wife, or husband, or sister, after a party you attended together. The young writer who sat in the back of the class and never had anything to say about anything. The dunce, you thought. The writer who couldn't, not in one's wildest imaginings, make anyone's list of top ten possibilities. It happens sometimes. The dark horse. It happens, lightning, or it doesn't happen. (Naturally, it's more fun when it does happen.) But it will never, never happen to those who don't work hard at it and who don't consider the act of writing as very nearly the most important thing in their lives, right up there next to breath, and food, and shelter, and love, and God."

I would like to be quoted someday. To feel like I have said something, like my words were important enough to someone that a person wanted to share them with another person.

Maybe if I put a bucket under the faucet, my slow drip will eventually be enough to quench someone else's thirst.

Perhaps one of these days I'll trace the pipes back to the source, see if something is going on down there.

Autumn or Winter Chicken Dreams

It's strange, waking up so early and delivering papers again. My day seems to stretch on forever. Things that happened in the morning seem like they happened yesterday by the time supper rolls around! I guess that's a good thing, because time flies the older you get, or so I hear, and I'm no spring chicken. I guess I'm a winter chicken. Or an autumn chicken. But definitely not a spring or summer chicken.

It was this afternoon, that I took a nap and my dream fought to enter my reality. I was having a conversation in my dream, when I woke up and opened my eyes and moved around a tiny bit. but the person I was having a conversation with in my dream was still talking, and I was listening. Strange. I had to make butter after that and spread some on bread and think about what was going on. What's going on?

What does it mean?

I want to dream like spring chickens again.

Behind Butter

There's a lot to making butter. Well, not really, it's actually pretty simple. I guess what I mean is: there's a lot behind making butter. Yes, that's it. There's a lot behind making butter. Better butter, at that. There's a great deal behind making better butter. Sometimes, a pebble is really a stone. Sometimes, a stone is really a boulder. And sometimes, a boulder is really a mountain.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling like I have too much on my mind, I make the simplest butters. Plain, salted butter. Even, unsalted butter. But there is so much behind those simple butters! So much excitement or fear or pain or doubt. I make those simple butters because they are always enjoyable.

They're hard to mess up, even if I'm messed up!

10 20 2010

This is an active time of year for squirrels. I forget, every time I take Regrette and Warden to the park. We get there, we see lots of squirrels, the dogs get excited and become unruly, and we immediately have to leave. It's such a futile exercise. I wonder if they could ever catch a squirrel if they were free to chase them. Maybe a drunk one, or an injured one. Heck, maybe Regrette is a tree climber. Who would know?

September. It was both the month I was locked up, and the month I was set free. September is freedom, and the end of it. I imagine I'll die in September. September is heavy.

Here is what I feel like: Like a fly fisherman, eternally casting his reel, but never catching anything.

Yes, like that.

Curt Butterseed

Ronny got an apple cider press. It is a very small one. He told me to come over today, and we walked around his neighborhood, taking apples from any tree we could find bearing fruit. There were a few. I have heard that Johnny Appleseed started out in this part of the country.

Remember when we picked cherries from that cherry tree? Ronny is into finding fruit. He says everything tastes better when you don't have to pay for it. When he says things like that, I tend to believe him at first and then I think about what he said and realize he is full of you-know-what. I have determined that Ronny enjoys the sound of his own voice. But you know what? We made cider today, and it was delicious. It could have been more tart, but that's okay. Next time, we will find some tart apples to add to the mix!

I wonder if I had been born 150 years ago if I could have been to butter what Johnny Appleseed was to apples? What do you think? Maybe I would have a couple loyal cows who would follow me around, and they would give milk, and maybe I would have a bull too, and my cows would have baby cows and I would sell the little cows in frontier towns to frontiersmen and I would show people how to make delicious butter with the cream they gave.

Maybe that's ridiculous.

I am shot in the head

It came out of nowhere. I was walking the dogs when I was struck by a bright yellow stick. Clyde appeared from behind some bushes and said, "Got you!"

I picked up the stick and inspected it in my hand. It had a rubber end and it was light. "Give me that," Clyde said and grabbed the stick from my hand. He was holding a plastic gun. My eyes widened. "What," Clyde said, "it's like you've never seen a Nerf gun before."
"I haven't," I said, "ever seen a nerd gun."
"It's Nerf, with an f, not nerd. Geez, where have you been?"
"Nerf?" I said. "What's that even mean?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Nerf," I said. "Nerf. Nerf. Sounds weird."
"Are you from this planet?" Clyde said.
"I was in prison."
Clyde held up his gun. "For what?"
"Those things don't hurt," I said.
A white stick flew at my face and bounced off my forehead. "Hey," I said, "why'd you do that?"
"Why were you in prison?"
"I did something very bad," I said.
"What did you do?" Clyde said.
"Killed my best friend, with a bullet."
Clyde lowered his plastic gun. "That sucks," he said.
"You're telling me," I said.
"Sorry," he said.
"I'm Curt," I said.
"I know."

Clyde ran down the block, like he always does, it seems. He is not much younger than I am, but one could say is full of youthful energy!

"Good"night

I wasn't going to post today. It's late, I have to get up early tomorrow, it's been a long day. And then I laid down to go and I wasn't tired anymore. What a horrible feeling, when all you want to do is sleep but you can't sleep.

Lying there, alone with my thoughts, and the craziest things dance around in my head. Money. The meat dress. My life, how much I have left of it, and the way I've used it. Would it be easier if I wasn't alone? Harder? Would it make a difference?

I think, maybe there's something going on and I need to write it out, so I fire up the old Dell and start blogging, but obviously I don't have much to say. I'm too tired to write, but not tired enough to sleep. Where did I go wrong? Was it that last Pepsi? It was 2 PM!

Tomorrows are hard enough on a good night's sleep.

Bah. Goodnight.

Gumption

Delivered papers this morning. Have to say, not much has changed since I left. I asked some of the guys, "What happened to the person that had my route?" and they all got quiet and didn't say anything after that.

The Ghost, ever cheery, said, "Jimenez, you can't deliver them papers standing around, can you?"
"No, sir, I guess you can't," I said.

He spit a chewed up sunflower seed onto the ground. Dad would have whooped me if I'd gone and done that, he still would, I'm willing to bet. I wonder what The Ghost's father is like. The Phantom or The Mummy.

I delivered the papers in a time that was less than spectacular, but good enough. I just don't have it in me anymore. You know, the gumption. No vision quest to save up for. The gumption's all but dried up. And even though delivering papers hasn't changed, I have. What happens when one pea in a two pea pod rots? You can't have a good looking apple when one half is pocked with worm holes, can you?

I knew a man once, who drove down a straight stretch of road by my house growing up, who strapped binoculars over his eyes. This man had gumption. He was my best friend, Tony.

So I asked Tony, "Why do you drive with binoculars over your eyes? You crazy or something?"
He said, "I'm not your mom." That really stung, but I didn't let it show because I didn't let those kinds of things bother me unless I was alone in my bedroom, where I'd tear at the wall or chew on the pillow with hurt. Tony knew before any of us wanted to know, that something up there in her head had gone out and that her eyes floated, seeking.
"No, really, why do you do it? You're gonna get yourself killed."
"So I can see" Tony said. "Think about it." Then he said, "See."
But I thought he was crazy, the whole time.

But I understand now. He was seeking also, but the lights on inside his head, his eyes, focused.

I am seeking.
For gumption.

This Post Needed an Editor

It is when Curt is looking for a way to make his writing feel more urgent that Homes suggests the present tense. He asks Homes what is so urgent about the present tense, and Homes explains. "If you talk about something as if it just now happening," he says, "it will feel like it is just now happening!"

It all seems to make sense. Curt starts writing everything out, in the present tense, and everything feels as if it happened just now. He relives things from his past through his writing. Things that in real time were very confusing as they were happening. Through writing, things that always seemed surreal start to feel real and then achieve a written realness that over time gets suffused also with a good deal of fantasy, if that makes sense. Curt Jimenez becomes a self confident man through the present tense, and he becomes much more interesting. A fictional Curt Jimenez is born. Readers (hypothetical ones!) begin to wonder where the line between the literary and the historical Curt Jimenez is.

Homes is fascinated by this dichotomy. He has taught Curt about the present tense, and now he wants to teach him about voice. About honesty. He talks skeptically to Curt about some of the things he has written. "Curt must have been quite the Casanova!" he remarks, or "this Curt Jimenez really must have been something in high school...really, class brains and best smile!"

"I don't like this literary Curt," he says at one point. "He seems like a real phony!"

Homes knows that the real Curt has a JD Salinger obsession. He also knows that the real Curt is very sensitive, and quite in awe of Homes, who he sees as his mentor. Homes is a teacher.

This Curt, this early version of Curt, this Curt who has just begun to use writing as an outlet, is so discouraged by this he almost stops writing. He is confused, and hurt. He realizes that he can create alternate worlds for himself through writing, and that this creation brings with it a certain sort of empowerment. He also knows that this creation represents a sort of "putting himself out there" that leaves him vulnerable. He wonders whether it is worth it, whether his life needs any more roller coasters. He arranges a meeting with Homes.

Homes doesn't show up for the meeting.

Curt avoids Homes for the next few months. He reads serialized Star Wars novels, and takes a drawing class, and a business class. He writes letters to Lo Mei Fok. He misses going to those writing classes with Homes, but he is scared. He doesn't understand that Homes hurts too, that Homes himself is wondering whether maybe he didn't play his hand the right way. Homes worries that he has underestimated the depth of Curt's hurt.

Curt doesn't remembered how it is that they started talking again. Maybe Homes brought a book to Curt's cell, maybe it was Elephant by Raymond Carver, or Shiloh by Bobbie Ann Mason. What matters is that they started talking again. That Homes started talking to Curt about his own troubles, and ultimately gave him that story that was so personal that it tore Curt apart, but also made him feel as alive as he'd felt since he'd been locked up.

This is when Curt begins to understand voice.

This is what he is striving for.

"We are unusual, tragic, and alive"

I found a green plastic toy soldier on the sidewalk. Actually, Warden did. Warden tried to eat the green plastic toy soldier, but I fished the soldier from his mouth and wiped Warden's slobber off and looked at the soldier in my palm, small and daring. He held two guns, one in each hand. He was brave. He was brave and daring. I looked around in the grass and in the street, to see if his unit was around, staking out. But there were no other green plastic soldiers. And then I knew that the soldier was a very brave and daring soldier. And he was in my palm, his guns threatening my thumb and pinky!

I have not been brave or daring. I don't think I've ever been brave or daring. What makes a man brave or daring? I used to think that a brave and daring man was a man who didn't cry when he wanted to, so I didn't cry for a long time. But that's not a brave or daring man. That's a man who's trying to be brave and daring, but doesn't understand that hurting plays a big role in being brave and daring.

You know what Homes told me? He told me that his grandpap raised him and his older brother and they worked on a peach orchard, all three of them, together. Before Homes was locked up, he took care of his grandpap because his brother was a drunk who beat his wife and was never around. Homes couldn't stand that, nor could his grandpap. And when his grandpap had a stroke, Homes was there, spooning him applesauce and drinking the morning's coffee with his grandpap before getting on with the work on the orchard. And when his grandpap died, Homes said that he was just sleeping. Even when the doctor arrived and felt for a pulse and told Homes that his grandpap had died, Homes said that he was just sleeping. He told the doctor to go home, that he would take care of his grandpap now, that things were as they should be. When the men came to take the body away, Homes locked the door and told the men to get on out, to leave him and his granpap alone, but they forced the door open and Homes fought the men and cried hoarsely as they took his grandpap away. He'd never cried in front of so many men, never cried that way. Crying so hard it hurts, like you're crying out your insides so that when there's nothing left for you to do but stop, you feel empty.

A brave and daring man is a man who can tell this kind of story and make another man cry. And I did cry.

I cried just thinking about it with the toy soldier in my hand and Warden howled and Regrette pulled on her leash and I put the soldier back down on the sidewalk, brave and daring, because I'm sure the soldier's seen so many things, heartbreaking things, things that would make any man cry. I saluted the soldier.

And I said something I'd read by Dave Eggers, "We are unusual, tragic, and alive."

It seemed like the right thing to say.

The Fall

It is the fall. September. Football is being played, trombonists and trumpeters are being taught that playing as loud as they can is right and good. Somewhere near me, somebody is selling unpasteurized apple cider, but I don't know where. If it is you, and you are reading this, please let me know.

It is the fall. The post-summer, the pre-winter. The thing-that-is-itself, but in it's own way claims it's identity by being not things. Fall is cooler than summer, but warmer than winter. Fall is when school starts. It is when breaks end. It is when the leaves change, when they know that they can no longer perform the work that they are supposed to do. Perhaps there are things that I can shed, in solidarity with the trees. Perhaps, but I cannot think of anything right now. Fall is not winter, and it is not summer. Fall is not spring. Fall is relative. I have been told that everything is relative. I think that there may be some truth to that.

It is the fall. The fall was bound to happen. What goes up must come down, people say. They mean it, too. They are right. Things fall apart. Stability begets instability. A clean house becomes a messy house. A full stomach becomes an empty stomach. A tired dog becomes an energetic dog. The fall. The fall. Fall is a feeling. A state of mind. A smell. A taste. Butternut squash. With butter. And brown sugar. And a glass of unpasteurized apple cider. With bite.

Poor Correspondent

Inside an envelope addressed to me from me:


Dear Curt,

How are you?
I've been as well as I've been since I saw you last.
I'm afraid I'm not much of a correspondent. Or maybe it's that new news is always old news by the time it reaches you. Which is when it reaches me. Oh dear. I just thought about throwing this letter away and starting over again.

But I'm not. No. I'm just going to end it here.


Best,
C. G. Jimenez

Tomorrow comes, today!

When I got home from my route today, I ran to the mailbox expectantly. But there was nothing. Maybe tomorrow.

It's nice to have to leave the house for a while. You come home and know that things will have changed. The dogs will have found the granola bar you left on the counter. There will be new clumps of dog hair, everywhere you look. You get on the computer, and you have some new emails that you have to delete. Things just aren't the way you left them, and that's kind of great. When you just sit at home all day, the changes just happen, right in front of you. The magic is gone! It's almost like they're not really changes!

It is fall. Falling to winter. Falling out of summer. I am waiting for new friendships, and maybe for old ones to take on a different color. What can Ronny and I do in the fall? And the winter? Maybe he likes high school football? Maybe he likes to ice skate? Maybe I like those things and just never knew! Maybe! Possibilities! I should do something tonight! But I am tired. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow!

To: Curt, From: Curt

It is nice to get something in the mail, even if it is from yourself. So today, I sat down at the table and wrote a long letter to myself. I folded this letter up carefully and shoved it into an envelope and wrote my address on it and went on a walk with the dogs and dropped my letter off in a mailbox three blocks from my apartment.

Tomorrow, I should get the letter. I will open the letter and read what I wrote. But in the mean time, I will try to forget what I wrote about so that when I read the letter tomorrow, it will be surprising and enjoyable.

What could be in a letter to myself?

I could write about so many things. I could write about last year at this time. Last year at this time, I was full of so much, so much, there is not a word I can think of that describes what I was full of, so, I was just full, of so much. You did not know me then! Can you believe that? I know I can't. But it's true. Our paths did not yet cross. I did not make butter. I was scared and excited, but I am still scared and excited. That is not such a novel feeling.

In a letter to myself, I could write about my new old job as a paper deliveryman or the dream I had last night about Rick Snow. Rick, I dreamt you called me and when I answered the phone, you called yourself and put me on hold to talk with Rick Snow.

In a letter to myself, I could write about writing a letter to myself. What does this mean, keeping myself company in this way? Is it something beyond loneliness? It must seem awfully pathetic because it is, really. It really is and yet, if this was what I were to read in the letter to myself, I would sympathize, and what would that mean then?

You know so little. And so much. It is unfair to tell you that what I did today was write a letter to myself, although I did. But I also sat at the table before I wrote the letter and drank coffee and thought about things that people always think about but are too ashamed to write or talk about. I wanted to break. And before that, when I woke up, I took a shower and afterwards, climbed into bed, naked and cold. I thought of people and situations and I thought of the things I'd say. Witty or provocative things and replayed these situations over and over again with new things to say. It is nice to be Curt. A bold Curt. A smart Curt. A curt Curt.

After I wrote the letter, I licked the envelope. I wondered if maybe the letter would never make it to Curt. I wondered if it would get lost in the mail. Lost. So many things are meant to have a place to go and end up lost. But even lost things like to hear about loss.

Reconciliation

Sometimes, you wake up to a phone call, and you get scared and you don't want to answer, but you know you have to. Sometimes it is bad news. But sometimes, it's the Ghost telling you how desperate he is, how he's tired of babysitting all these jagoffs, how you were the best delivery guy he ever had and he's sorry things went down the way they did but what's done is done, let's let bygones be bygones, Curt, please come back I'll give you a nice raise. That's one of those times when all you can do is pinch yourself and do all those things that you have to do to make sure you're really alive, you're awake, you're not in a prison cell, you're free and things are kind of okay maybe after all. You think to yourself, who has ever been this excited at 51 years old to have his or her job as a newspaper delivery person back, the one that you have to wake up at 3 in the morning 6 days a week and just barely make enough money to buy your dogs the cheap dog food that's made out of corn and wheat and animal by-products that your friend Otto makes down at the rendering plant. But it's okay, sometimes it feels like good moments are almost impossible to come by, and by God this sure feels like a good moment so screw rational thinking, this is good good good news, you can answer the door now when the landlord knocks and you'll pay the electric bill, and maybe you won't freeze your *ss of this winter after all.

And now, you can just have to figure out what to put in your employment celebration butter! What an existence!

The Razor's Edge

A long time ago, I read a book by W. Somerset Maugham. It was a book I picked out from the library in prison, maybe seventeen or eighteen years ago. I don't remember much about the book. It went over my head, I guess. I was young and scared and read when I thought no one was looking. But I do remember that the main character "loafed" and that many characters in this book had a problem with his loafing. He loafed for two years. He went here and there. And I thought, How great it must be to be able to wander. To loaf! I'd think these things and put my hand to my cell wall and imagine all the places I could go!

And now, I am loafing. And it's not that wonderful, really. But it is, too. I don't mind it. Some days, I worry about some things. Other days, I don't. I know that tomorrow, if I really wanted to, I could go out and become a grocer or maybe a mechanic, maybe.

Today, it smells like sweet sheets of newspaper. It smells so good, like something is happening without having happened. The dogs know it's in the air. They look at me, knowing, and I look at them, knowing. We agree. Today, we walk. And loaf. We take in this something as it happens. We carry it inside, on our clothes. We dream about it then and hope it's still there in the morning.

What if?

I'm sorry.

I'd like to apologize, to myself mostly. I'm sorry this is where we are. I'm sorry things are not better. I'm sorry every day we have to wake up and feel like the rock is at the bottom of the hill again. We should stop pushing.

Or we should keep pushing.

I've been thinking of Voltaire.

I think if he were around today, he would be a great blogger.

Think of it!

Introductions

I'll play you.

In what?

Rock, paper, scissors.

Why? Who are you?

I've seen you around.

What are we playing for?

Introductions. Best out of three.

I have to go.

Chicken?

No.

Come on then, let's play.

I don't even know who you are.

If you win, I introduce myself.

If I lose?

You introduce yourself.

And what about you?

I go home, knowing who you are.

And me?

I don't know. I'm not you.

I don't know about this.

It's only a game.

Ok. Fine.

Rock, paper, scissors shoot!

Rock beats paper, I win.

Rock, paper, scissors shoot!

Scissor beats paper, I win.

It's tied.

I know. Are you nervous?

No, it's only a game, isn't that what you said.

Ha!

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!
I win! Tell me who you are.

Hi, my name is Clyde. Clyde Turner.

And then Clyde Turner ran down the block, out of sight.

Conservation of Energy

I got in the shower today, and prepared myself for coldness. But it was soothingly warm.

The gas is back on. I guess the landlord must have gotten it fixed. So that's nice. Now all I have to do is come up with some rent money.

I have been eating rice. Rice with a small amount of butter. That's about as far as my dollar can stretch. You might say that I'm getting desperate. What if I get scurvy? Or the rickets? I need my vitamins, but vitamins cost money.

I need to conserve my energy.

Winter is coming.

Phew.

These Days

One of the many good things about butter is that you don't need gas to make and enjoy it! So that's what I did today. I made butter. Lots of butter. Delicious edamame butter. Zingy honey chili butter. Even word butter. Now, I know what you're thinking. Word butter? What's word butter? Let me tell you! Word butter is a butter you make close to your mouth. You direct many words into the heavy whipping cream and these words become embedded into the butter. Any words. Let me give you a for instance. You say, I am making word butter, into the heavy whipping cream, and your words are there, in the heavy whipping cream. Later, you will eat I or am or making or word or butter!

Today, this is what I said into my word butter:

Well, I've been out walking. I don't do too much talking these days. These days. These days I seem to think a lot about the things I forgot to do and all the times I had a chance to.

That's what I said into my word butter.

Later, I had my word butter on some crackers. And I ate the words forgot and chance. How, one might ask, can you tell what words you ate?

You just know.
You just do.
That's how.

Gas Man

Today, a man from the gas company came to the door. He had to inspect my building's pipes. He found two leaks, and shut the gas off.

"Have to cut the gas off!" he said.

No more hot showers. No more cooking on the stove. No baking cakes.

Can you believe it?