Curt Curt

End of summer Curt, satisfied Curt, Curt who looks at Curt in the mirror and thinks Curt Curt, Curt who stays up late and doesn't sleep in, Curt who likes to dislike and dislikes what others like, Curt who shoves too much food in his mouth, too little water to drink Curt, Curt with no phone, hypothetical Curt, Curt with no butter, butter with Curt Curt, Curt dissatisfied, angry for no reason Curt, sad Curt, Curt on a walk, wanting to sit down Curt, curled up Curt, Curt remembering a younger Curt, yogurt in his hand Curt, occupying a bathroom Curt, a cat with big eyes looking at a Curt, dog owner Curt, roommate Curt, new friend Curt, Curt as Luddite, Asian Curt, German Curt, rural Curt, traveling Curt, a Curt in the mind, a Curt in the mud, a curt Curt, a transparent Curt, no-dimension Curt, Curt on paper, Curt in theory, spontaneous Curt, diminutive Curt, larger-than-life Curt, Curt is watching, watching a Curt is Curt, Curt taco, noodles with Curt, steak and Curt, hold the Curt, please, Curt, like a rubber ball Curt, Curt opening his mouth to say Curt, brainless Curt, bleeding Curt, thin and invisible as a windowpane Curt, breaking Curt, Curt like dust, dust on Curt, I'm OK Curt, Curt who looks outside and thinks, What must it be like to be other than Curt?

Bestest

For the most part, I like Monica's friends. Some of her friends are now my friends too. For a long time, well, ever since I got out of prison, left the bars, the stoney lonesome, the slammer, the greybar hotel, the hole, the guardhouse, the clink, whatever you want to call it, behind, I've made few, and strange, acquaintances. I think they were more like "encounters" than they were "hanging out" sessions, more than they were "getting to know you" times or "let's do this again, soon" moments. It was all so crazy then! Ha!

Let me tell you something about Monica. She is very hyperbolic. Everything is either the best or the worst, the biggest or the smallest, the sweetest or the bitterest, the cheapest or the most expensive (but she says expensivest), the cleanest or grimiest--you get the picture? So all of Monica's friends are either the nicest or the shyest or the funniest or the hairiest or the shortest or the tallest. What am I?! Monica introduces me as "Curt, the bestest roommate everrrr."

The hairiest friend, Marvin, likes to tell stories. He told a story today. It was about going under with anesthesia. He said that when he went under and came back, he felt like a different person, that his name, Marvin, sounded wrong to him. He doesn't like to be called Marvin, so now we call him something else that I can't remember right now. After he left, it was late--it was like 5 minutes ago. Now I am typing this and I've just found a long strand of hair (probably Marvin's) on the keyboard. Monica is brushing her teeth. She brushes her teeth for literally five minutes. Monica has the cleanest teeth ever.

So sparkling white!

Pony and Thom

Monica was making fruit salad. Her friend Pony was shucking corn. Pony's boyfriend Thom was putting something on the grill. The dogs were in the backyard. It was a potluck!

I was picking certain fruits out of the fruit salad and putting them in my mouth and watching Monica, Pony, and Thom playing a game that involved extreme pantomiming. It was dark outside and raining lightly. The ceiling fan was on and doing nothing. Burning Sand and Loving Hand were poking their heads into another room and then wagging their tails.

A scary movie was put on. The lights were turned off. Pony kept talking throughout the movie. "Don't go into that room, stupid!" Pony said. "Geez! How stupid can you be? There's a ghost in there!" Pony said. "Ha, ha, yeah, how stupid!" Thom said. "Yeah, so stupid. Oh my gawd, what an idiot!" Pony said. It was kind of annoying how Pony kept talking throughout the movie. It wasn't scary because of Pony's voice. I wanted to say stuff too, but I have self-control. I understand that fear makes a person stupid. Fear makes you go into rooms that you shouldn't go into. That's the way it is. In the movie, a mother was exorcised. When she was possessed, her face looked like a canvas of cantaloupe peel. Her eyes were small and terrible. She spit-up blood. But the demon was cast out of her, and her face returned to normal. The daughter she tried to kill loved her again. They shut the door to the house and never looked back. Pony didn't say anything about that!

Pony and Thom went home. Monica was cleaning the dishes. It had stopped raining sometime during the movie and it smelled good outside. I wasn't even a little bit scared.

Recognition

Is it so hard to believe that Belle Star did not recognize me today? I went to the diner. Ordered a breakfast, and Belle Star didn't say anything to me that indicated that she knew who I was. She looked different. Thinner. Sadder. Maybe less angry. Maybe I looked different too. Wiser? Dumber? Older? Younger? It has been hard to write on here lately. To give it time. I think that someone reading these last few posts wouldn't recognize in them the Curt they'd seen in earlier posts. 

Here is a man that has had many looks: 

Radar

Hello. It's been so long since I last wrote. Sorry! There have been many changes! It's nice being back in the city. It's the same and it's also different. I sleep with my bedroom window open. This is something I used to not do.

Now it is sliding past the middle of summer. Heavy air. Across the street at the rescue mission, men sit in the shade of sunflowers growing in three small garden plots. Or they run across the street into the park. I can see them from my window. At nine o'clock they are ushered inside to sleep. Then it is exceptionally quiet outside.

Goodnight! Goodnight!

Roommate

Busy now that it's spring. In the time since my last post, I moved into an apartment with Monica and her dogs, Burning Sand and Loving Hand. Moving is always emotional. There are always loose ends. There is something of a push and a pull in every direction that you move. Now that I'm somewhat settled in my new place, I feel like I can think again. It has been many days since I could entertain a thought outside of thoughts of moving. Today, I wondered if I would be a good roommate. What makes a good roommate? "What makes a good roommate?" I asked Monica. She was organizing things in kitchen drawers. There were boxes on the table and on the floor. So many boxes. "I don't know," she said. "Respect? Care? Understanding?" Then she stopped what she was doing and said,"Not to scare you or anything, but I've never had a good roommate. Once," she continued, "I lived with a roommate who was so excited for me to leave that she invited over the person who was going to move into my room one morning. I was sleeping when they knocked on my door, opened it, measured my room while I was still in bed, and talked about the future like I'd already left. Right there, right there in front of me. My heart broke." Monica put a rolling pin in a drawer, then removed it like she didn't like the way it looked inside.

A roommate is still a new concept to me. I wonder how different, or how similar, it is from having a cell mate. My cell mate. Have I written about him already? His name was Eric and he was six years older than me. Even when he smiled, I could see how sad he was. He was tall, but had thin toy-like legs. There was something about the way he sat that reminded me of a kettle sitting on the stove ready to be heated. There was potential. He wanted to boil over. When I talked to Eric, I felt that he would never open up to me. When we slept, his snoring sounded like he was on the verge of saying something. Once, I thought he was saying my name. I answered, "What is it?" excited that he might finally tell me something. We were both murderers. But Eric, I would learn from others, had accidentally killed his daughter. We were cell mates for nearly five years before I felt that he started noticing me. I watched him pull his hands out of his pockets, look at them, and put them back in. He said, "I like pockets, Curt." I was so shocked, I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything.

Monica filled a bucket with water and soap to wash the floor and set it in the middle of the kitchen. "If I'm a bad roommate, would you tell me?" I asked.
"Depends," she said. "Once, I told a former roommate of mine that I thought she could be better."
"Then what happened?"
"It wasn't really about being a better roommate. It was about being a better friend and a better person."
"Did she understand what you really meant?"
"Yes, I think so. She became a better roommate, taking out the trash and doing her dishes, but became a worse friend. But maybe she became a better person. I don't know. I don't know." Monica dragged into the kitchen a rag, push broom, dustpan, and even floor wax." It depends on what kind of person you are," Monica said. "I would be honest with you if I thought it would do some good. With that roommate, I don't know if it was really good, what I said. I lost a friend and gained a roommate."
"I see," I said. "Would you want me to tell you if you were a bad roommate?"
Monica laughed. "Sure, Curt."

Eric and I were cell mates for fifteen years. In that time, we watched each other grow old like how I imagine husbands and wives do. His hair grew thin and his arms became thick. My hair grew thin and my eyes became smaller. I tried to imagine what Eric would be like outside of prison. This was the day before he was set to leave. "I'm leaving, Curt," he said that night.
"I know," I said. "I'm excited for you, Eric."
I imagined Eric wearing tasteful, plain clothes. Someone on the outside might think he was brutally simple. They might think his nostrils were large. I imagined Eric eating alone in a kitchen at a round table with a brave look on his face. I imagined Eric sitting in a park and looking at the people on foot, then the cars, and then the people on bicycles, and think that everyone was in a hurry. Eric told me a story that night. He told me many stories. They were funny. It was the most I heard him talk. He must have been nervous about being outside prison. Most of the stories were about his daughter. His voice was pebbly when he told these stories.

I put away the dishes, the bowls, the glasses, the mugs. Monica, behind me, was sweeping up the floor, flattening the boxes. "Curt," she said. "I think you'll be a good roommate."
"Thanks," I said. "What happens when you have a bad roommate?"
"You move on," Monica said. "Sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's hard."
"When was it the hardest for you?"
"Once, I had a roommate, and we had mutual friends. My roommate and I had a falling out, and it seemed like all the friends we shared didn't want to hang out with me anymore." She stopped sweeping the floor. Her face became soft. "It was always hard to see my roommate get in a car of a friend that we shared and know that I'd been consciously not invited to something. It felt like something heavy was sitting on my chest. I would be so sad, I wouldn't be able to sleep. I would be so sad and so hurt, I wouldn't even be able to cry."
"I'm sorry, Monica," I said.
"It's not always like that. Just sometimes."

The last story Eric told me was about how his daughter broke a crystal candy dish. She told Eric what had happened in tears and they cleaned up the mess together and agreed to not tell her mother what happened. "I'd never seen my daughter so scared," he said, laughing a little to himself. Her mother, Eric's wife, didn't even notice until four or five years later. By then, Eric's daughter was a teenager. She was wild and outspoken, but when she came home that day, her mother asked her what happened to the candy dish, and Eric watched his daughter's face lose all it's color, her eyes pinch with fear. After he was done telling me that story, he turned his head up towards the ceiling and shook like he was laughing, but I knew it was something else. "Eric, what is it?" But he didn't answer. It was the first and only time I hugged Eric. In the morning, he was gone. His bed was empty. I felt empty.

It's nice out today, and Monica is taking a nap. I'm sitting in the kitchen, wondering what Eric is up to. I wonder if he is living with someone, a roommate, and whether or not he is a good or bad roommate. Does he wash his dishes? Does he take out the trash? Does he walk quietly through the apartment when his roommate is asleep? Does he ask his roommate if his roommate needs to use the bathroom for anything before he takes a shower? Does Eric have a garden? Does Eric own plants? Does Eric remember me? Does Eric ever wonder what I'm up to? But I know, in my heart, that when Eric left prison, I also left his mind. That's how it is sometimes. Though there might be some small thing, some small tick that Eric has learned from me. Like the way he might move his hand, the pinky turning up, when he explains something that's hard to explain. It is hard to explain so many things, I think. That's ok. That's ok. 



              

Happiness, Long

It is finally spring. This winter was long. My indoor projects were few and small. Monica says she likes to garden. She says she will plant tomatoes and peppers and kale and she will buy potted herbs and put them on her windowsill. It's official. We are going to be roommates. We are moving in less than a month to a new place with nice amenities. I still have to break the news to Dad. That means I'll have a garden too. That means I'll have potted herbs on my windowsill.

The days are longer. I should be happier than I am, I think. I am pretty happy. But something tells me that I'm not as happy as I can be. Maybe it was the fortune cookie that said: Happiness is not short. It's long.

I'd just eaten spicy tofu. This fortune cookie made me really think. Monica asked me to read it out loud. I did. She didn't say anything. She looked more excited than I knew she really was. People always want to hear fortunes read out loud. But why? I can't remember a single fortune that was read out loud.

My sister was born in the year of the dog. My father was born in the year of the monkey. My mother was born in the year of the rat. What does that make me?

Twist it, Soften it

In the park, I talk to a man who doesn't speak very good English about the missing plane. He is very upset. He is Filipino. He knows someone who knew someone on the plane. He is worried about orphaned children. I agree with him, there is not much that is sadder than orphaned children.

Burning Sand is with me. Monica is at work. I am in charge. I am mad at Loving Hand. Loving Hand never stops asking for things. With a look, with a bark, with an insistent paw. Loving Hand can stay home and demand things from an empty house.

Anger has been welling up within me lately. I cannot find its source, and I cannot get it out in healthy ways. If I am not reasonably strong-willed at a particularly anger-filled moment, I take it out on the dogs. I am sad about that, and racked with guilt. I am feeling angry, and I am feeling weak.

Sometimes, I imagine Tony's unborn children. It does something weird to the anger. It twists it, it softens it, but it is still ugly. 

The Filipino man enjoys Burning Sand. Did I sit next to him, or did he sit next to me? I don't remember. 

"I am trying to stop drinking," he says. He is tired of it, just tired of it. He looks tired. He looks young and old. 

"I am trying to stop being lonely," I say. 

"One day at a time," he says. 

At home, Loving Hand will have pooped somewhere. I will get home and I will be upset, and I will yell. Loving Hand and Burning Sand will wrestle and I will yell again, and I will wonder where all this anger came from. 

In spring, I tell the man, we will all be reborn. I almost believe it.

I've got to get closer but I don't know how

Well, it was bound to happen. The blind man called.

He called when I at Monica's apartment. Let me tell you that Monica wasn't in her apartment when the blind man called. Neither were Loving Hand and Burning Sand. They were at a pet store.

At first, I wasn't going to answer the phone, because who has a landline (besides Dad) nowadays? There's no good in landlines, is what I was thinking, when I reached out and answered it. It felt good to pick up something heavy, something with some heft, and bring it to my ear. Then I understood why people still owned landlines. The voice on the other end said, "Monica? I need lyrics."I knew it was the blind man immediately. Something in my gut told me so, and I saw him clearly in his house, sitting alone at a table much like I was. Except he couldn't see the room I saw him in.

"I need lyrics, Monica," he said.
"Monica's not here," I said.
"Oh, who's this?"
"Um."
"You must be Monica's brother."
"Yes, I am Monica's brother," I said.
"Listen," he said. I pushed the phone harder against my ear. "Could you tell me the lyrics to a song. I can't see. I mean, I'm blind, and I can't look up the lyrics."
"Oh," I said. "Sure?"
"Great! The song is Sussudio by Phil Collins."
I went to Monica's computer and typed in: Sussudio lyrics. "Ok," I said. "Got it. Ready?"
The blind man cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "I am ready to hear the lyrics to the song."
"There's this girl that's been on my mind," I said.
"Very nice."
"All the time..."
"All the time?"
"That's what it says," I said.
"Ok," the blind man said.
"All the time, Sussudio, oh oh. Now she don't even know my name."
"No?" The blind man clicked his tongue. "What a shame."
"Do you want me to go on?" I asked.
"Yes, please."
"Ok," I said. "Now she don't even know my name. But I think she likes me just the same."
"Probably not," the blind man said. "I was afraid of this."
"Sussudio. Oh oh. Oh if she called me I'd be there. I'd come running anywhere. She's all I need, all my life. I feel so good--"  
"Oh boy," the blind man said. "This guy sounds like a whack."

This went on and on until I read all the lyrics. It was exhausting, really, but the blind man seemed content. He thanked me and hung up the phone. I'd never heard the song before because, well, I was locked up. But I wanted to listen to it. So I did:

)

Reading Chekhov

     

Last night, I read some Chekhov:
     
      "Life is boring," I philosophized to myself as I tried not to fall. "This isn't a life, but an empty, dull existence. Day after day, year after year, all the while still the same inside, no different than when you were young. Many years pass while you still only drink, eat, and sleep. In the end, they dig a grave for you, bury you, and have a party after your funeral with free food, telling each other, "He was a good man, but he didn't leave enough money behind for us, the scoundrel.'"

     In this story, the narrator, drunk, stumbles unknowingly into a cemetery where he becomes petrified with fear.

     No!

     What is funny is that he is not the narrator! This story is in the third person, but barely so. A few sentences let us know that Ivan Ivanovich is telling this story at a party. Hmmm.

    This Chekhov, he is capable of saying these things. He had TB for most of his life. He was alone most of his life. He was fairly confident that his work would disappear with him. He was a doctor who spent a great deal of time helping others, often for free. If this man didn't have a full life, I am not sure who does. He was also taken with wondering what it was all about.

     Great people wonder what it is all about. So to, do men who are not so great. I think of Bruckner, and wonder whether doubt ever showed it's face to him.

     When I am unable to do anything else, I eat peanuts. Peanuts provide me with great comfort.

We were no holy witness

So when it happened, she knew the largest flies must rise. Waves of something hard had crushed us. We never prayed so much. There was no use in trying to overlook it any longer. Her mother, my grandma, was going down there in the earth with the other cold people. It was something that made our skin feel an inch thick. We wouldn't have her anymore. She'd be covered up in old dirt made to look new and black with the shovel blade. I was ignorant. I was twelve. The length of sky was the size of my naivety. Wide and blank. Then grandma was taken into a clutch. Her only thought we'd never know. My father didn't have any words and my mother had words that sounded like they were on the highest hill. They rolled down with so much compassion. They frightened me because they sounded like guilt. My sister looked down into the marrow of them and cried. Don't tell me that, I heard her say once to no one. We were no holy witness.

Anyway, it was a death. That was a long time ago. There was a road then that led us to the cemetery and a building blown away. Behind the eyelids, I saw the sun and thought it was the face of God. The swallows rushed out from under a tree. They weren't getting along like me and my sister. We didn't have an adult endurance because we were children. But it was an adult day. I'll always wonder how it was I was not afraid. Mother could only breathe if she said nothing. There came a day when she started talking again. Again, her words frightened me when I heard them. I was tasting crumbs in my pocket. I looked up to see her watching me. There was a scuffle in the air. It went through my heart. I understood something about losing someone.

Grandma rose up in my heart. I wanted her to come back. The only time I saw her was when there was a crack of light beneath the door. I asked her. Her silence floated in my gut. I was nothing. Sometimes I saw her in my features. My eyes dripped. I turned very white. Meanwhile, mother's steps were an urgent scrape. She was never the same because with death, a valve opened up inside her and she couldn't keep it shut. Part of her mind turned gray. Something squeezed her throat. We sat together in silence. Someone let out a breath like a part hissing in a truck.

So she disappeared too. Not into the earth, but over it, one evening. I thought I saw her walking in the windows. Those she left waited up for her. She'd left us with cutting edges. We looked upside down. But I didn't feel any trace of fear. Father was laying back on the couch. Everyone was much older now. We knew how to act. That is certainly true. There was not heart in her leaving. And I would leave too one day. I think I knew that even before I thought it.

Peace! I thought. Peace and peace and peace!

Simple

I woke up feeling good today. No reservations. The coffee was delicious, the toast a perfect vehicle for some honey butter.

This is where I will leave it. Only happy thoughts today!

ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhhhhh ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhhhhhh ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

Monica is someone who likes operas. I don't know much about operas, but then Monica plays a song from an opera that I've heard before, and I tell her that I kind of like it, that it's kind of catchy. You know, I think Mozart's been on my mind lately, because Monica tells me that Mozart wrote the opera and that it's called The Magic Flute. That's nice, I say. But the song you like, Curt, is a very dark song, Monica tells me. My eyelids are kind of droopy from last night's relaxers. I am sitting on her couch. I have like zero muscles. Or maybe zero bones. She made something with lentils and it was very good. I am 100% lentils! What is the song about? I ask. It is about a mother telling her daughter to kill her father, or else. Geez, I say. That's messed up. Monica nods. We listen to the opera. It is very good, I recommend it.

There is so much to tell Monica. When do you know it's a good time to tell someone a dark and stormy past? What will Monica think about me when she learns what I've been up to in the past? Does it even matter? What if Monica has a dark and stormy past too? What if her dark and stormy past is even darker and stormier than my past? Gulp.

Tension. Release.

I should tell you , first off, that I have taken a muscle relaxer. I am feeling okay, but a while back I got a prescription and I didn't use them all. And today I took one just because. I guess I am feeling tense. Or I guess I was feeling tense. I am feeling good now.

I shouldn't have told you that. I regret it now. What kind of person am I? It wasn't even a muscle relaxer for me. It was for Burning Sand. He was yelping when he was pooping and whenever he got on the bed. And then he went to the vet and got a prescription. But then he was fine. And there are these pills lying around. Does Monica know that I am that kind of person? That I would just casually pop a pill that was prescribed for her dog? Does she really want to live with a person like that?

Am I only unique because I admitted freely to doing such a thing?

Listen. We all have choices to make. We talked, Monica and I. Do you want to know the truth? We have gone beyond just talking. She is very nice. The amount of money she says I need to pay each month, it is not that much. I can make that much working Saturdays overnight stuffing ad flyers in the weekend edition. I can make that much doing odd jobs for the kennel. Live free or die. Who says that? Do they believe it?

Today, here, in the morning it was raining and it smelled like spring, and in the afternoon we were buried under more snow. Monica said that this winter is intent on reminding us all about how great it is when the spring comes and we are truly free.

Right now, I am drinking a Dark and Stormy. I am relaxed. I am forgetting tomorrow.

What's brown and sticky?

"I am feeling better today. I am feeling like maybe how Mozart must have been feeling, and then he died. But I am ALIVE! It is like the first day of my new life. That's something that I say a lot. It seems like I am always starting a new life. I feel like maybe Mozart and I would have gotten along. You see, I like the movie Amadeus. And apparently, Mozart 'had a startling fondness for scatological humor.'"

"Curt," Monica's voice says over the phone. "That's great to hear! Curt. I have an idea."

"I like ideas."

"You say that your dad is getting tired of you and whenever we talk and your dad is brought up in conversation, you sound like you're getting tired of your dad."

"Uh-huh."

"So why don't you move into the apartment that I'm moving out of? It's not that expensive and the landlord is nice. Or," Monica pauses.

"Yeah?"

"We can be roommates."

TMI

I got myself some sort of stomach virus. It has not left me in good condition. Once again, Dad is sick of me. I am sick of myself. It is something when even the thought of butter makes you sick to your stomach. I am waiting for the haze to be lifted.

I have exhausted my toilet reading. I have prayed to the patron saint of toilets. Also, the patron saint of lost causes. Surely, this is not a lost cause yet, but why take a chance? 

This blog feels empty. I am sorry. I wish I had the strength to do better.

An Episode in the Life of a Lost Game

We're going to play a game.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

In the kitchen, our principal player: Curt.

***

In Curt's mind, a thought about breakfast. A thought about lunch.

***

In the kitchen, Curt's father: Dad.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

In the kitchen, our principal player, Curt, can be seen from the window. He is outside, in the yard. In his mind, a thought about inside. A thought about another house. A house he saw with "Monica."

***

In a kitchen: "Monica."

***

In the kitchen window, Dad, stares out at his son, Curt.

***

"Monica" is not in a kitchen. She is on a walk with her dogs. This game is full of lies. It is a game about lying and laying in wait.

***

Like a wolf.

***

Your turn.

***

You are in front of a computer. A laptop. Your eyes run across the sentence. The radio is off.

***

The radio is on. Dad turns it off.

***

Curt is not outside.

***

"Monica" is in a car.

***

She is naked in Curt's mind.

***

Dad. Every father has seen his child naked. Did you forget?

***

Every father has come into the world naked.

***

You don't know about this game. Something about it makes you uncomfortable.

***

You can stop. That would make you a loser.

***

My turn.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

Dad is eating a cereal that is good for his heart.

***

Curt is in his bedroom. He is still asleep.

***

Did you really think he was outside thinking about inside, a house, breakfast, lunch? He was not. He has been sleeping this whole time.

***

"Monica" is in a car. She is traveling somewhere. Above, the car is a blue dot. Above, the car is turning onto a road, and another. Below, the car makes a sound like keys tossed in an empty bowl. Inside, "Monica's" radio is turned on. "You better watch your step."

***

It's a different song. It is a radio show now in the kitchen. Dad listens.

***

First, he must turn on the radio.

***

Dad turns on the radio. Dad listens.

***

Curt is waking up.

***

You are thinking about something.

***

Mostly lies.

***

Your face is moving because it is trying to be still.

***

"Monica's" car disappears. I lost sight of it from above. From below, it is the same noise.

***

Your turn.

***

If you stop now, you lose.

***

Keep going.

***

What happens in a game?

***

Someone cheats. It's my turn.

***

Already?

***

Yes.

***

It is all about Curt.

***

The radio show Dad listens to is about myths.

***

Basements can be built in Oklahoma. But no one in Oklahoma believes this.

***

Then the tornadoes come.

***

"Monica" listens to the radio show.

***

Woof. Woof.

***

Her dogs are in the backseat.

***

Curt says, "Woof. Woof."

***

The radio says: "Woof. Woof."

***

Which author do dogs like best?

***

Is this game boring you?

***

Virginia Woof.

***

You lose a turn.

***

Curt is still waking up.

***

"Monica" is thinking about a "house."

***

The dogs are wagging their tales.

***

Dad turns off the radio.

***

Oklahoma doesn't have homes with basements.

***

Curt gets out of bed.

***

You forget what this game is all about.

***

That's right. I never told you.

***

Just like that. Game over.

***

The wolf pounces.

***

The lies proliferate.

***

The game, even after it has ended, continues on and on.

***

Our principal player, Curt, doesn't even realize.

***

He yawns.

Milk-cake Whole-truth

You understand that their real names are not Burning Sand, not Loving Hand, not Monica.

You understand that privacy is a valuable thing. That when I tell you that we saw some more houses today, that we talked about it afterwards in Monica's apartment, and that we sat there drinking Prince of Peace Ginger-Honey Beverage , you understand that when I say that I wished that we were not sitting on her love seat but were rather sitting on the World's longest sofa, you understand that I might not be telling the whole truth. Do you understand?

You understand that the time that I told Tony that I had saved him a piece of milk-cake, that when he finally showed up 4 hours later and came in as I was eating the last piece of milk-cake, you understand that it wasn't my fault. You can't count on people. I had learned that lesson. Of course you understand. Sharing that lesson was more important than any piece of cake. 

Tony liked. Tony did not like.

Take us back, Curt, to a time you can hardly remember, but remember enough to tell. Close your eyes when you tell us, because that way we'll think it has much more meaning than it might, like you are trying to hold something back, and that as soon as you open your eyes, it would all come out, whatever it was you were trying to hold back.

Tony liked sweet potatoes. I know this because he told me so.
Tony liked green, but not red, grapes. I know this because he only ate green grapes.
Tony liked swimming pools more than I did. I know this because he went more times than I did.
Tony like horror movies. I know this because it was something he liked to talk about. Horror movies.
Tony had a mean father. I know this because most of the kids in our school had mean fathers.
Tony had a fear of throwing up. I know this because he said he had a fear of throwing up.
Tony liked summer more than spring and more than fall and more than winter. I know this because he looked happiest in summer.
Tony had a pet lizard. I know this because I came up with his pet lizard's name: Sebastian.
Tony's pet lizard died. I know this because we buried it on a hill and had a brief service for it. This was pretty ridiculous and we knew it was but we did it anyways and didn't care what people had to say.
Tony had brown hair. I know this because his hair was brown.
Tony had size 10 1/2 feet. I know this because his feet were smaller than mine.
Tony had more patience than I will ever have. I know this because when he got impatient, I had been impatient much earlier than he had.
Tony did not like sweet potatoes. I know this because he always chose normal potatoes over sweet potatoes.
Tony liked red, but not green, grapes. I know this because his mother only bought green grapes and he ate them reluctantly.
Tony did not like swimming pools more than I did. I know this because when we went together, he never went into the water, but sat on the edge with his feet in the water, looking disappointed.
Tony didn't like horror movies. I know this because whenever there was nothing left to say, he mentioned a horror movie that he hated.
Tony had a kind father. I know this because Tony's father had left him and his mother and sister when he was three and had never had a chance to be mean.
Tony did not have a fear of throwing up. I know this because he told me that he did, but always threw up anyways whenever he'd had too much sugar or too much beer.
Tony liked summer less than spring, but more than fall and winter. I know this because in spring, he had something to look forward to, but in fall and winter, he curled up inside his head and hid there.
Tony did not have a pet lizard. I know this because I pointed to a picture of a lizard and said, "Let's pretend we own him and lets call him Sebastian."
Tony's pet lizard did not die. I know this because we went to the park and sat on a hill and talked about death and funerals, and we forgot about the picture of Sebastian. So in a way, Sebastian died. But it was unreal.
Tony did not have brown hair. I know this because my hair is brown and Tony's hair looked different than my hair.
Tony had size 11 feet. I know this because his feet looked smaller than mine, but we could wear the same shoes.
Tony did not have more patience than me. I know this because he left this place much earlier than me.


Curt, Curt. Thank you.

Why Would you Stop?

Guy and I used to watch it, and talk about it. The part where he says "shove it up your nose". Guy used to get excited and he'd talk about what a feeling it must have been,  to be singing with that amazing band behind him, to be stoned out of his mind, and just to be Elvis. What a glorious mess. He can't stop. Would you have been able to stop?

Monica is looking at buying a house. She asked me if I wanted to come along with her to look at a few. Sure, I told her, why not, I am not a bad person. What a grown up thing to do! She says she likes my perspective, though I am not sure what that means. She has another date with the blind man on Wednesday. She says she cannot tell if she likes him or if she just pities him, and she has to figure it out. There was a blind man in prison I knew who was locked up for stealing a lot of money from a church. I am not sure if he was a bad person or not. Monica is not made of money, and the first house we see is very small. Too small for Loving Hand and Burning Hand I say, but she says, "I could make it work!" The second house is a wreck, there is an open house and everything is a mess and the owners are clearly hoarders who have let life get away from them.They are sitting in a van outside smoking cigarettes, and their 5 dogs (!) are sitting on the back porch pawing and scratching to be let in, or maybe just wanting to be told that everything is going to be ok. I wish I could tell them that. If I could be that guy. The carpets, the kitchen, everything, is a disaster. Monica says she sees through the mess and feels the potential of the place. All I see is sadness. I could not live here, but it is not my house hunt.

I have been feeling at times a big emptiness lately. I wonder what it was like to be Elvis, to have such success and such big thrills and to still have such huge appetites that were so impossible to sate. I think if I had what he had I might not have made it as far as he did. I am poor and lazy. What if I wasn't? Could I say no to so many temptations? I once read a biography of Elvis by Bobbie Anne Mason. She writes short stories that remind me of my mom. Elvis really loved his mom. I forgot that I read that book, and then I kept wondering how I knew so much of Elvis' life. Then I remembered.

Curt, you are so complicated! Monica says. I do not feel complicated. I just feel hopeless. Where is my great moment, my pinnacle? If you found yourself on a Las Vegas stage in front of an amazing band singing a great song, and you were Elvis again, wouldn't you want to stay there as long as you could? As long as you could sustain it? Forever if you could? Is there something better? Will I ever taste anything remotely like that?

Monica says that the blind man lost his sight when he was working in downtown Philadelphia building a skyscraper. He had a wife and kids and his life was good, and work was hard and tedious but he was excited to think that someday whenever he drove by that building with his family he could point to it and say "I helped build that," to his sons and his daughter and that they would know that there dad didn't just leave the house in the morning to do nothing, that he was a man who built things. Then there was an accident, and then his marriage was over, and then there was nothing left except that he was a blind man. All of his old adjectives turned into a single one. But he had turned to Jesus, and he was starting to understand things, Monica said. A man who could overcome something like that, Monica said. Monica was apparently drawn to broken people.

"Which house do you like better?" I ask Monica.

"I like them both," she says, "but I'm not sure how much. I'm not sure if I like them for me."

I try to picture Monica living in the houses with her dogs, and I can picture it, but it doesn't make things any clearer. Buying a house is a big commitment. You don't know how long the roof is going to hold out, whether something will happen and you won't be able to make your mortgage payment, whether a rendering plant will be built next door that will destroy the value of your property. Houses have secrets, I say. Monica says that good things can happen too, that maybe you buy a house one day and then find out that Elvis was born there and you won't have to work another day in your life! Sometimes there are good secrets, she says.

I remind Monica that there's only one Elvis, and she seems to have had enough of talking to me for the day.

Bad People

The day before today was Valentine's Day! Monica asked me for a favor. She was going on a blind date and needed someone to watch her dogs. Would I watch Loving Hand? Would I watch Burning Sand? Yes, I said. I would watch Monica's dogs. She said she was literally going on a blind date. Her date was blind. Wild, I thought, but it was, I hope it goes well, that I said.

Loving Hand and Burning Sand are medium-sized dogs. Dad is not a dog person. He is not a cat person. Sometimes, he is not even a person person. But I'd already agreed. There was Monica, leaving. She looked pretty. She was wearing something that looked like a dress, but really it was flowing pants. The dogs were in my care and into the house we went. Dad wasn't happy. But he wasn't necessarily mad either. But I think he'd had enough of my shenanigans. Then the weather turned icy.

My sister called to wish me and Dad a Happy Valentine's Day. Dad put her on speaker phone and Loving Hand and Burning Sand listened to her say stuff. It wasn't a very happy conversation because she was talking about high blood pressure and our family tree. "We were related to some bad people," she said. "How did we get unrelated?" I asked. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, you used the past tense, like we're not related to some bad people any more." "Curt," she said. "What kinds of bad people?" Dad asked. "They went to prison," my sister said. No one talked for a while and then my sister said, "Oh, God, I don't mean to say that Curt's a bad person." "Whatever," I said. Dad looked at Burning Sand and Loving Hand and said, "Who names their dogs those names?" "What dogs?" my sister said. "Nothing," I said. Dad started coughing. "I want a chocolate heart," my sister said. My sister is a nice person overall. Dad took her off speaker phone. He was talking to my sister when Burning Sand pooped on the floor. It was easy to clean up, but I was kind of in shock. She did it in front of me and I wondered if there was something wrong with her. Of course there was if she was going to Doggie Daycare. Meanwhile, Monica must have been staring into the eyes of her literally blind date and wondering what happened to her date's eyes. When you are born blind, what is there to miss with vision?

This is where the story changes, dear reader. It is the same, but also, it is not. We will call him C.

C. picks up the dog poop. C.'s father puts down the phone. C.'s father sees the dog poop. C.'s father says, What is that, dog s**t? H**l no it ain't! Get those dogs out of here. C. has the dog poop in a tissue in his hand. The tissue in his hand is filled with dog poop and then C.'s dad walks over and looks at the tissue in C.'s hand. Out, C.'s father says.

It is icy outside. The dog's don't know what to do. They sniff a tree. They want to go inside the house. Don't poop anymore, C. says. When they come inside, C.'s father has calmed down. Dad, C. says. Am I a bad person? C.'s father looks at C. No, C., you aren't. Sometimes you don't think. That's all. You are an unthinking person. That sounds pretty bad, C. says. The dogs lick C.'s hand. C. never washed his hands after he picked up the poop. He washes his hands. The phone rings. It is Monica. She can't drive because of the weather. Her and her literally blind date are inside a warm building. How is the date going? C. asks. What? Monica asks. Oh, she says. Well, it's good so far. How are Loving Hand and Burning Sand? Just great, C. says. They didn't poop inside, did they? No, C. says. Good, Monica says. Sometimes they do that when they're nervous. That must mean they feel comfortable with you, Monica says. I guess, C. says. Well, I gotta go. My date's waiting. Thanks C. You're welcome C. says.

At night, C. lets the dogs sleep in his bed with him. It is like the good old days. He listens to the ice hit the window. Tap, tap, like a walking stick.

A dog named Regrette.

Regret is something that burns itself into you when you spend time in prison. It's all you can do to try to focus on moving forward, on the future. The past is a black hole, a succubus. A dead-end street. You can't change the past. You can only move forward.

I think of this as I ride around for the dogs.These shelter dogs are trapped in situations, but they didn't do anything. Do they somehow feel regret, do they think that this is their fault that they are stuck living in kennels? The only time they spend outside is spent fighting the urge to leap at an old man on a bicycle? If they are like me, they are looking back on every kernel in their past, wondering how things could be different. If they didn't so like the taste of adhesive that they hadn't always eaten the important mail. If they could just resist busting past that ghetto fence that was expected to keep them in for ten hours at a time. So many things, but instincts are instincts, and our nature is our nature. How are we to assign blame?

At times in my life, I have tried to give myself up to other things, when in reality I have not really been able even to take care of myself. It is hard to live in this world, to take care of things in this world. I regret that I have not been a better man. I have always wanted to be a better man. It is little things that I have been able to manage, and perhaps for this reason, it is little things that have brought me joy.

Butter is big, and small. Butter is there when I need it, and asks nothing of me when I don't. Butter is beautiful, and versatile, and giving. She freezes well, and is slow to spoil unlike so many of her dairy brothers and sisters. She is salty and full of fat, and you have to get your salt and fat from somewhere.

But what if my marriage to butter is a marriage of convenience? What if I love her because she is easy--if there is something out there that would offer both greater challenges and greater rewards? What if my time with butter is just the next line item on a massive receipt of regrets?

I had a dog named Regrette.

I have been thinking about me, and butter. And I've asked myself, if I were to stop making butter tomorrow, how sad would I be? In the abstract, I am not sure that I would be that sad. I have tied up a bit of my identity in butter, but that is not something I should feel the need to stubbornly cling to, right? There are other things out there.

And it is okay to feel sad. It is okay to change. And it is okay to dream.

Perspective

I Believe in Chu

Daydreaming

Would you watch my show if I had a show on Food Network? Maybe it could be called something like The Better Butter Show. Or, Making Stinky Things That Taste Good to Certain People. I don't know, just throwing it out there. Maybe it could start out small. Maybe Dad could film me and then I could send the clips to Food Network. But Dad has a shaky hand. It might be hard to watch. Would that make it endearing? Would the show be called Cooking in an Earthquake? Would it take off? I don't know. I can kind of see it happening like that.

Like, did Molly Schuyler ever think she'd be a competitive eating champion? I showed Dad some of her videos. He likes her a lot. He calls her the greatest magician ever. I think she makes me feel a little bit sick sometimes.

Curt

you got two again

     Dad says, "all these jars...what the hell. Goddamn it Curt, clean out the fridge."
     Alright, I've got some stuff going on in there. But you gotta eat! The point of a fridge, and a kitchen, is not to be clean and bacteria free! Ask Sandor Katz! Ask Alexander Fleming!
    Alas, I can pretend, but this is not my kitchen. I am a guest, and one who has overstayed his welcome. My pickled beets and green beans, my SCOBYs and sourdough starters no longer have a place to live. They will return to the land from whence they came.

    Dad doesn't want to talk about anything but this.

Could it be?

Is this Curt? Could it be? Am I checking in? Did I feel static yesterday? Do I feel that today I have to go, go, go? Does today feel like a hurry? Am I hurrying? Am I late? Did I ride the bus this morning? What if I told you that someone said something to me on the bus? What if this someone said, "Excuse me"? And what it after excuse me, this someone said, "You look familiar. Did you go to ________ High School? And what if you were in my shoes and didn't go to ________ High School, but said that you did? What if you were in my shoes and saw this someone light up? Would you have said you didn't go to ________ High School if you were in my shoes? Would you have said "No"? Did I say "No"? What if I told you I didn't say "No"? Would you think differently about me? What if when I got off the bus, I felt that I had done something wrong? Could it be that I did something wrong? Did I tell a lie or a white lie? Would you continue on with your day without giving it another thought? If you were in my shoes? Would you?

Happy Birthday!

I wanted to wish you a happy birthday! (If it is not your birthday, that's OK! Just bookmark this post and go to it when it is actually your birthday.) I wanted to do something special for you, so I picked out some songs that I thought you would enjoy. Hopefully one of them feels extra special and fits you like a glove! Have a great day!

Here is a song for if you have to ride the bus today:


Here is one for if you are trying to cure a seven year ache:


Here is one for if you are a child and your parents fight a lot, and you lose yourself in play:


Here's one in case you are worried about end times:


Here's one about the love you feel for your son:


Here is one for if you are married and have a chance to "get with" someone else who is also married:


Here's the first song I listened to when I got out of prison:


And my theme song from when I was in prison, from the same album:


Maybe these aren't good birthday songs. That's OK. I love them, and I want you to have them.

Have a great day!

Love,
CGJ
:

I wrote this today/ with a rhythm in my heart/ just for you, ok?

I am kind of feeling inspired today. Once, I owned a coffee mug that inspired me to write a haiku. I wonder if I could be a haiku master. I just had that thought just now. Literally like a second ago. If I write a haiku everyday for 10 years, will I be a master? What does it mean to be a master of anything? I wonder: if I speak only in haikus, would anyone notice? Probably not. But this afternoon I tried to do just this. I said to Dad:

"This winter is hard
because it has snowed, snowed, snowed--
No snow is a dream."

He said, "Yes, son. Snow, it sucks the life out of you."

I ordered a coffee at the coffee shop and said:

"I'll have a coffee
no room for milk pretty please.
For here, not to go. "

And, I waited for the mailman to say:

"Hello, thank you sir.
You brought me some mail I see.
Goody, goody, thanks!"

The mailman seemed suspicious. And I was suspicious of the mailman.

There was nothing exciting in the mail, but before I could think of another haiku, the mailman had moved on to the next house. 

This post wasn't really a post, but it was. It was a post, just for you, ok?

nobody owed anybody anything

     There is something broken in the house now, and when you wake up in the middle of the night--thirsty, or needing to relieve yourself--it keeps you awake, a quiet rumble. It is the refrigerator, you think. Or the furnace, a little louder than it used to be. It is not the guilt that once upon a time used to throb and pulse like the Tell-tale Heart. Or if it is that, it no longer presents itself to you that way. It is something different. It isn't anything. It just keeps you awake.

   Do you remember what it was like when you could sleep through anything? When 5 hours was enough, and you would take 6 when you could get it, and 9 when you didn't have to work and there was nothing else to wake up for? Do you remember? Do you remember reading about Charles Whitman and reading his letter and wondering if the same thing was happening to you? Do you remember how you did something, but it didn't end then, and everything kept going, and you had to come to terms with the world, and hope that the world would ultimately come to terms with you? Do you remember asking the Mother for forgiveness and understanding that it would never come? That that wasn't the thing that was unfair?

     Homes once told you that nobody owed anybody anything. It was hard for you to reconcile your admiration of Homes with the fact that he was in the exact same place as you were. And he pushed you to talk while he sat on his own silence. You might have lashed out at him once or twice. You were angry, and bitter, yes. But you still talked. And you were glad that you did.

     You once did something big, but now your being is announced only with small gestures. You write. You work. You are polite, and you tip well. You hold the door for old ladies. You try to be a beacon of decency. But when you were a young man, you shouted at the top of your lungs, and the echoes still drown out everything subsequent. And you lie awake at night, wishing silence and unicorns weren't equally fantastic.
 
   

Bring Me Up To Speed

Whew, yesterday's adventure left me bushed!


This post is a recap, a sort of bringing us back up to speed, a revving up, a gearing up:


The infamous nuisance.
The quietest mourning.
How I sometimes always feel before I post.
The appearance and disappearance of Clyde.
Curt's curtness.
Breaking the 4th wall.
The curious Ronny.
How to pronounce Guy.
The Ghost...terminates.
Holy Fok.
Super Bowl.

And For What?

Years ago, someone told me I needed to go see this. Today, I went. I got on a bus, I worked my way through a couple of these on the drive so I didn't get bad bus-thoughts, and I went and saw The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly. I recommend it! You should go!

It is great, of course. I am curious about whether there was anything exceptional about the artist, other than his determination and persistence. Is that the thing that sets some people apart? If I can get back on the blogging bus, and keep this up for thirty years, will people look back and say, "that crazy guy, he was crazy, but he really did something! His blog was stupid, but he believed in it!"

If there had been an internet for James Hampton, would he have turned his solitude into something so beautiful? Would he have had a blog? Would we think he was less crazy, or more crazy? 

Other people have obsessions, of course. This fellow has written 14,000 songs! He wrote this song, which is great!!! 

I was talking to this girl at the museum, and I told her how much I like folk art. I like Grandma Moses, and I like Edward Hicks. She asked why I thought this stuff was so great, it could of been made by a 6th grader, and I said I don't necessarily think it's great, I just like it. I think that's a reasonable distinction. Everything in a museum is not put there for the same reasons. And if somebody worked in their garage for 40 years, making amateur paintings, pretty soon they would have an impressive body of work, like James Hampton. And maybe 50 years from now, somebody will be reading this, and they will say, "Curt! What a wild guy! He just kept going!" 

Maybe that's where I'm headed. Like boats against the current. Tending to my garden. A Cathedral of the mind. Vanity of Vanities.

Fear not!

Cleaning Up

Here's to Belle Star.
Do you remember her?
This is what she told me.

She told me once about her dog. Her dog had eaten a battery. Her dog was going to die. She was so upset with her dog for eating the battery she threatened it with her foot. She screamed things at her dog she wouldn't scream at a person, but out of love, despair. Sometimes, this can happen. And well, Belle Star was (is) a firecracker. Do you remember? She said, That f**king dog had me going f**king nuts! Then she poured peroxide down its throat and the battery came out steaming and the dog never looked so ashamed. Her dog, the dog that did this, had long ears. Its ears were so long that when it shook water from its coat, it hurt itself with its ears, Belle Star said. The way Belle Star kept butter bothered me. But I was too scared to say that butter should be served fresh, not stowed away in boxes in the freezer. Think of the insults she would have hurled my way. I think of her today because time does funny things to memories. I wonder what she's up to, but only a little bit, because if I knew too much more than that, I'm sure it would make me sad. Everyone has a little sadness in a side of them. Mine is in the past, and the past is in my face, I like to think. You can see it.

One summer, Mom took me and sis to a high school carnival and the woman running the fortune telling booth was my future gym teacher. But I didn't know then. I wouldn't know until a few years later when she blew a whistle in the high school gymnasium and introduced herself as Ms. Hill. She didn't look into my palms or a crystal ball, but at Mom's face, and it was enough for her to stop cracking pistachios on the table and really look. She told Mom that things were going to happen, some good and some bad and that there would be some luck involved. It was eerie, how spot on she was.

That summer, a boy I knew drowned in a pool because his heart had suddenly given out. The news upset everyone I knew and there was a jump rope marathon in his honor. We jumped and jumped and I thought about him, and I knew then that death was something that could happen to the old and the young. That's when I came to truly fear death.

Belle Star, that might have been your son, the boy who died in the swimming pool that summer. But it wasn't. But what if there was something like that that made you the way you are.

What were you thinking when the battery came back out? How long did it take you to clean up?

Oh!

Well. This is something. I wonder if this fellow would ship if I reached out to him.Now I am really curious.




















03.

Yakkety Yak

I wonder what butter made from Yak's milk would taste like. I don't know if I'll ever get my hands on Yaks milk though--they live in the Himalayan region. Carl Linnaeus called the yak a grunting ox. He was a Swedish botanist, physician, and zoologist, and I'm not sure if he liked butter or not. But if I had to guess, I would say yes, he enjoyed butter more than most people in the 18th century. He grew up in Rashult, and a photograph of his home looks like it was in the country. In his home, he learned Latin before Swedish, and in his home, he probably had fresh butter, the freshest. He never wrote about butter I'm sure, in Latin or Swedish, but if he did, I think he would write about butter fondly. Swedish butter must be delicious. There is less sunlight in Sweden than here in the winter and more sunlight in Sweden than here in the summer. Light can transform the palate. Light can transform so many things.

I want to make clarified butter. I want to make ghee. Gee, I've made ghee, I would say, probably to myself.

Where am I going? What is the point?

I say where are you going? What's your point!

Missing It

It's not that I don't love Dad. It's just hard to see him sometimes. In the dark, his face looks young because I can't see it. But in the light, it is old. When it's in the light, it is hard to see him because I know that there will be a time in my life when Dad won't be around. Does this happen to you?

Someone told me today at the Doggie Daycare that if you broke bags of water on a horse's back, it would calm down because it would think for a minute or two that it was its own blood. This was brought up because a dog named Bully was being wild. They wanted Bully to calm down. Someone suggested they toss water balloons at him, but someone else said that it probably wasn't a good idea. Monica wasn't at the Doggie Daycare. Someone else said it was because her car broke down and she lives in the city. I thought about her in her car with Loving Hand and Burning Sand in the backseat.

When I rode my bike, I needed gloves and a scarf. My face was entirely covered. I must have looked like a different person. The dogs barked and barked. I thought, I could ride on forever and they would still bark and bark.

In the house, Dad is watching TV. He turns the volume up, up, up! When it gets dark out, his face will glow like the TV. They are dissecting a cow's eye on TV. What is he watching? They cut away the fat from the cow's eye and dad takes a big bite out of a sandwich. He is thrilled. Inside the cow's eye, there is thick fluid. It is what I imagine silicone to look like. But it probably isn't like silicone at all.

I am low energy today. I am missing something I don't know. I must have know it once. That is how I know I am missing it.

Loving Hand, Burning Sand

Oh glory! Awake, awake, said someone in my ear. Then the voice disappeared and it was a warmer day out. This was not this morning, just to let you know. It was yesterday when it all happened, and it was a warmer day out.

I know. I said my resolution was to return to this blog with more vigor. But it is hard to be vigorous when you can't feel your arms or legs! That's how cold it's been. The arctic has a hand. The hand usually covers the arctic's head. But the hand has come down, down, down, has reached for places it hasn't reached for in a long time. The door handles are so cold. Our neighbor's pipes burst. Dad says it's so cold he can feel the grain of his heart. He can be so poetic sometimes. But I wonder if this is something serious. Something I should be worried about. I think of a heart being sanded. Sanded down and down.

I got on my bike and I started to ride and I never felt so good I couldn't believe it was real. There I went, around town, because I could without gloves and without a scarf. It was a small miracle. Well, the miracle got better as miracles often do. Praise be. The Doggie Daycare was giving a class outside and the dogs, all sorts--all shapes and sizes--were outside with their owners. I rode by and a man said, "Wait!" I stopped and waited.

These dogs had behavioral issues. They were troublemakers. Each one of them had done something bad to someone's hand in the past. One had even done something bad to someone's rear end. He asked me what I did. I said, "I make butter," even though it wasn't what I really do, do as in making a living, but it is something I love to do, to make butter makes my heart sing. The grain of my heart sings. The particles come flying off, sanded, and they sing. So he asked if I'd like to make some "fast cash." I said, "Yes, fast cash." He asked if I'd ride by the dogs on my bike. "Sure," I said. "I'd love."

That's what I did. I rode by like I was in a parade. Back and forth. I could have gone on like that forever. The dogs lunged. Their owner's arms grew straight and frenzied like swatting baseball bats. The dogs barked and dug their claws into the sidewalk. Doggie Daycare was alive and I was its pulse! "Curt," I thought. "You are a pulse! You are a winner!" And I was. I imagined I was in a bike race. I won each time I passed by the dogs.

Afterwards, I was given Gatorade. When I got off my bike, the dogs must have thought I was an angel. How well behaved they were. A woman introduced herself as "Monica." I liked that name very much and told her. "It has three syllables, and I don't meet many people with three syllable names." She thought about it for a long time and then she introduced her dogs. "This is Loving Hand and this is Burning Sand." What great names!

Fast cash is what I made. I must have rode my bike past those dogs at least ten times. And I made 20 dollars. "Come back," the man said. His name was John. When I rode away, I thought I could hear everyone say, "Come back, come back, Curt." But when I turned around, the Doggie Daycare was there without anyone outside it.

Da-thump da-thump.  

Bean Burgers and Resolution

Good evening! I just had some bean burgers. They were very delicious. While I was eating my bean burger, Dad asked me what my New Year's Resolution was. I told him. Well, I didn't know what to tell him. So I didn't tell him anything then. But now, I know what my resolution is! It is to try and write more entries for the Better Butter Blog! I do love butter!

Butter out,
Curt