Sunday, September 8, 2013

That's the mighty tree which gave up part of itself and I wonder- will it live long enough for a scar to form? For any healing to occur?

Good morning. It is morning in Lloyd and someone is mowing a yard and dogs are barking (these dogs- whose are they and are they new?) and the crickets are tuning up and the roosters are taking turns with their crowing and the squirrels are so busy in the pecans, chewing the nuts and spitting out shells and my ground is littered with the sharp pieces of them.

I had a good cry last night. I cried and cried. I guess we need to do that sometimes, just for the hell of it. I had a good cry and then I started reading a new book and I fell asleep and here we are.

If Mr. Moon was here I'd be making pancakes but he's not so I won't.

I could go to the Waffle House and eat some breakfast there, served by charming young ladies who may or may not be working on a prison-release sort of deal but I think my mind would explode, walking into that room where servers are shouting orders and bacon is sizzling and travelers are sitting and waiting and children may be crying and coffee is endlessly brewing and the steam rises from the waffle makers. I've never eaten a waffle at the Waffle House. Have you?
Now I sort of want some hashbrowns.

Good morning. It's Sunday. I wonder why they don't meet at the Revival Center next door on Sundays, but always on Saturday night. I wonder why they always have talk shows with politicians and pundits on Sunday morning TV. I wonder why humans are so cruel to each other when life is cruel enough just as it is. I wonder why people believe that putting prayers up on Facebook is going to change their lives. I wonder why Facebook exists at all, to be honest. But I also wonder why people believe in god so there you go. The evidence seems thin at best to me.

I just grated two small potatoes that I grew last spring. This is as real as real can be. I planted them in the dirt, they grew, I harvested them, they will be my food.

I guess that's all I have to say now.



  1. Fucking Sundays. I took a walk, and have been working on a presentation for an hour. I'll be working all day. So sick of it.

  2. Sometimes it's good to have stuff you can get your hands around physically. I certainly feel like that sometimes.

  3. Good cries are a good release. Sometimes the tears won't come and everything stays muddled inside and you feel like you are going to have an internal explosion. I don't understand anything either today. Sweet Jo

  4. Putting prayers on Facebook and most times Bible verses is a form of exhibitionism. Kind of like saying "look at how spiritual I am." In my world Facebook exists as a place where I could keep an eye on what was happening in my daughter's teen aged life, and where I can go steal pictures of my grandsons. My son used it when he was deployed to let us all know he was alive and well. I kept me from staring endlessly at the driveway wondering if a notification team was going to come.

  5. Grounding and essential, the humble pommes de terre. And you have a grounded Florida congressman in Alan Grayson.

  6. The evidence is very thin.

    I've had a couple of good cries this week too. I guess they're good, even if they leave me feeling a little weaker than I'd like.

    Sunday's almost over.

  7. SJ- No. That does not sound fun at all.

    Jenny Woolf- Nothing like a potato to shout "REAL!" Especially one you grew yourself.

    Sweet Jo- Let's blame the planets and their alignment.

    Lisa- There are definitely real and true reasons to use Facebook. And then, there's the rest. Hello and thanks for coming by!

    A- This is how unaware I am- I had to look him up. Whoa! We have an awesome guy from Florida! Who knew? Thanks for educating me on that fact.

    Mel- Yeah. I never know if it's good to cry or not but sometimes it must be done.

  8. I have, indeed, eaten a waffle at Waffle House. In fact I really LOVE Waffle House, although I always feel a little bit like I might be killed there.

    I remember about 25 years ago eating at 2 a.m. with a friend at a Waffle House in Bonita Springs, and a thoroughly insane woman sat next to us and talked to herself the whole time. She kept telling herself an incomprehensible story about growing up in Sarasota.

    Such are the mysteries of Waffle House.


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