Snow! Dogs! Ingenuity!

I just woke up from the most amazing nap wherein I had the most mundanely surreal dreams about napping. And waking up from napping. At least the subject matter did not detract from the rich quality of sleep gotten and the subsequent out of it-ness I currently feel that is indicator of said nap quality.

Par for the course, really, the ordinary nighty-night life. Whenever I encounter a person who claims to have garnered some divine pinpoint of inspiration directly from a sleeping dream I cannot help but shroud myself in my shawl of disbelief (serape of disbelief? or wait - what are those thickly woven things that look like the softest of mobius strips that people wear around their necks these days? anyways.) and shiver with the slightest bit of envy. My dreams are so mundane (read: if they (Arch Angels of the Universe) are trying to tell (Bestow Upon) me something (Divine Inspiration), I for sure would appreciate it if it weren't so, I don't know, intricately cryptic (Symbolic))! That or dream people are trying to kill me. Either way, where for me are these revelational dreams that these well rested people speak of so highly? This elusive guiding light eludes me in my moonlit, ok slightly on the uncomfortable side organic cotton futon.

And so I turn to snowy nature. Not the Snow-pocalypse of last month, I was in Chicago-pocalypse at the time. I am referring to none other than my two weekend ago adventure to Snoqu-apocalyps-mie Pass. Specifically, an underpass at Snoqualmie Pass. To embark on a few hour snow shoe adventure. An afternoon trek that I have no photographic evidence of. Only fond memories, passing soreness, and a soon to be revealed brilliant scheme. But first, because nothing goes together with narrative writing than a swell image, a photo pulled directly off the internet:

I chose this one because it best refers back to the run-of-the-mill theme of the day. Two other images that did not make the cut but just barely were A) a grouping of old school snow shoes stuck person-less into a snow bank such that it kinda resembled DIY grave stones (ominous!), and B) a grouping of person joyfully engaging in the new to me sport of snow shoe racing. Wait - snow shoe racing? It kinda sounds maybe really appealing. And also maybe only if I was being chased by dogs.

Speaking of dogs: my irradiant idea! It came to me as I was witness to/body checked by our group's 2 canine companion's running abouts and chasing after one anothers. Here it is: 

Dogs for rent at trail heads.

Think about it. Fun loving creatures to bound along side you and provide that extra boost of energy up that steep incline! Cute domestic animal meets the great wild entertainment! An extra hyper extra safety precaution for those who trek alone! Someone to talk about/to when you tire of your chosen human companion! No dealing with wet dog travel logistics! Perfect for cat people who like the benefits of a dog sidekick but don't want to put in the work of ownership! And the operation would double as a dog sleep over place when you are away on vacation! Everyone wins!

Now to find someone to put this enterprise into orbit. . . 

Oh, before I do, though, one last image that didn't make the cut:

Let's see, yes, well, excellent advice. Unless maybe you are snow shoeing for the first time ever in your life, adult or otherwise, then, maybe not so much. Unless. . . you have Rent-A-Trail-Dog! You and your rental canine could chose the path so less taken that no one has yet to take it and shuffle your way (or run, if you are in the know of the snow shoe racing) till your heart's content, safe with the knowledge that you are not alone. And that if you did get lost, you can just follow the yellow snow all the way back to the parking lot.

The Christian Cure for the Common Cold

I am under the weather. How far? Definitely more than 3 inches, nowhere near 6 feet.

Earlier, after bailing on all my evening duties, I sat at home trying to figure out ways to A) make myself warm and B) get the germs out of my system. I have been following the prescribed 'drink more fluids than you thought humanly possible' route with very little instant gratification other than that which is experienced after peeing out aforementioned obscene quantity of fluids. Another regenerative axiom floated into my brain: sweat it out. Do not picture me in a low cut tank top and striped shiny shorts ala Richard Simmons. Nor create any mental images of me wearing a candy bright leotard with matching head band a la Jauanita de la Fonda. I am swaddled in regular attire (read: what I would normally where to go out in the dead of winter. save for sheep fur lined boots). But, seeing as I was having difficulty getting my body temperature to, what's normal these days? 37degrees celsius? with layers of an entire flocks worth of wool, plus a freshly filled water bottle (those red rubber things that old people/actors on cold medicine commercials have) (a friend gave me one years ago as a gift and it truly is the best thing ever) (on cold nights), I needed to seek out new strategies.

My nose and urinary tract were already in overdrive, what other floodgates do I have left? (No, I'm not sorry I asked. I am specifically referring to the dismissal of clear liquids of the platonic variety. Besides, it was kinda retorical of a question.) Then it came to me: my eyes. Well, tear ducts to be specific. I know! I thought to myself, I will cry this cold out of my system! Ok, now then, question: how to make myself cry without stressing myself out. Answer: sad movie. Think, ilvs, think, what movie made you weep effortlessly, uncontrollably? Dancer in the Dark. Oh, wait, that movie also made me extremely depressed. That and I don't have 2+ hours, I wanna cry now! and feel good about it! Then it came to me. . .

That freaking Christian lion you tube video.

For those of you who missed it (and for everyone else, you should probably watch it again), please take this moment to visit:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=md2CW4qp9e8

Well, tell me I don't need to convince you the wonders it worked. I freaking bawled the head cold right out of my face for however many minutes makes up around 5 maybe more viewings of that video. I feel a hundred times better. Way better than a stupid netty pot. Not as time intensive or messy or expensive (provided you have free internet access) or embarrassing (provided the free internet is not accessed at your local branch of the Seattle Public Library).

And now that I have stumbled upon this miracle cure, I shall recommend it to all who feel slightly unwell or in low spirits. And I hope life treats you kind, and I hope you have all you dreamed of. And I wish to you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.

And excellent health.

. . . but I ain't got wings. . .

Ok, so I haven't left my house yet, nor crossed off any of the items on my to do list. But I have been watching the craziest thing outside my window.

I just posted about the squirrel that was pushed off the roof of my neighbor's house (ok, so it's two and a half-ish stories, not three). I thought it was a squirrel fight, but oh was I mistaken. I'm watching a mom squirrel teach it's kid to take a fall. Those other squirrels where just showing that it is possible.

Momma squirrel is as we speak, dragging baby squirrel up the tree (holding the not so little one by the leg in her mouth) for round two of 'jump off the roof before I push you off.' Yikes, Mom! I mean, I guess if you're gonna learn to take a fall, you gotta fall, but holy crap that's a jump. I suppose that is a lesson learned in 2 maybe 3 tries. Meanwhile, other baby squirrel, presumed sibling of disinclined descender, has been perched on my neighbor's first-ish floor window sill for the past hour or more, scared motionless. You got way far less to jump my little friend, but, man, I feel ya.

So, lesson for today: learning basic life lessons, like falling and trusting you're gonna be ok, sounds a lot like all hell is breaking loose. And in the end, falling from a roof top and walking away a little stunned is way better than starving on a window sill, wide eyed and petrified. Now if I could just get my neighbor to play Tom Petty's 'Learning to Fly. . . '

animal freakin' planet

I just watched a squirrel fall from the roof of my neighbor's three story house.

There was a whole lot of chirpy commotion outside my window, the tree limbs waving about frantically, my tiny wind chime clamouring for my attention. I jumped to my feet in protective mode: a robin has made her nest right under my window, on the ledge created by the water pipe that runs along the outside the house like an afterthought before feeding into my kitchen. She's tucked in behind the pigeon spikes, which may deter the squirrels, but leaves her totally exposed otherwise, the tree still bare this early in spring.

I noticed her hanging around a few weeks ago but it wasn't until I looked up after parking my bike to the tree one day that I noticed her yellow beak and tail feathers amongst a circle of twigs. Peaking over the sill from inside, she flew away at the sight of my gigantic head, a perturbed magician, revealing three perfect little blue eggs. Babies! My neighbor is having babies! This is awesome! If I had a camera I would set up some kind of webcam, or at least get a still shot of it. Somehow, holding my entire laptop over the next to utilize the 'photo booth' program does not a good idea seem. So for now, use your fertile imagination.

But the squirrels! what the eff? There were two that fell off the roof (pushed?) by one parent squirrel who remained on the roof with a younger squirrel. I saw the first land but turned my eyes when the second one caught air. Both were fine, landed on their feet/bellies with the daintiest of thuds. I suppose they aren't that heavy to begin with*, and nature has probably built in some kind of safety feature in the way of high impact shock absorption, seeing as they live in trees and fall out of them sometimes. But then the two on the roof were joined by a crow who was bullying the youngin'. At which point the robin came back and pushed on the crow in a premature maternal 'don't eff with that baby and don't eff with mine once they are born' kinda way. Basically, all city wildlife hell broke loose on the roof top for about 45 seconds. I'm really hoping they got it all out of their system cuz I'm totally looking forward to baby birds waking me up in the a.m. I just hope they like funk music, cuz my neighbor is gonna give them an earful.

*ok, so adult squirrels are actually pretty heavy, deceptively so. how do I know this? I've picked one up. by the tail. to move out out of the middle of road, for starters. until the time comes that I learn that they increase in density post mortem, I shall remain duly impressed by their agility and strength.

lookin' funny/funny lookin' - part 1

I'm watching my upstairs neighbor's cats. Because they asked me to. They are away and fond of their cats, I am near and fond of any cats. It's a win-win situation. Motorhead is the cat whose shadow I once mistook for an owl. We are, for all intents and purposes, best friends. Godzilla, the fluffy not fat but who's to say really because she won't let me touch her with a ten foot pole, however, looks at me like I am an alien. That's ok. I am comfortable with my human form. Being stared at wide eyed by a hissing black ewok would be unnerving if it weren't so cute.

On my way to Geode's, I passed a dead bird on the sidewalk. And by passed I mean took a giant step to avoid stepping upon, by bird I mean the partial remains of one. Two more steps and I stopped, turned back. No creature deserves that kind of indignity. Not having gloves of any kind with which to move the bird with, I scooted it with the toe of my boot. In the process, I lost my balance and stepped on the wing, almost snapping it. Finally placing it on the grass by the white picket fence, I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. At the exact moment that the fear 'people are gonna think I'm crazy' crossed my mind, I espied Bo Oddessy walking up the sidewalk on the other side of John St. He is dressed rather tame today, a bright orange knit cap, grayish pink wool coat, and tan kilty skirt. I know the twinkling sounds surrounding him are emanating from a fanny pack hidden by the folds of his coat, though, I like to think that it is his white beard making that sound. He turns the corner, I turn back to the bird. In lieu of a proper burial (or perhaps this is proper enough), I drag a few wet leaves over the bones, hold them down with wet twigs, top it off with a dewy feather. I stand up tall with my respects and for a moment, this bird and I are all that exist.

duck. duck. goose.

stopped at the light at 12th and pike yesterday morning on my way to work, I witnessed the strangest, no- most magical thing. a goth/punk fellow walking his black lab, followed by half a dozen black crows. they were milling about in the trees, following him a few paces behind, diving down, hopping about, flying back up, eating whatever hansel and gretel crumbs he was spilling in his wake. I thought maybe they were gonna get tired after he crossed the street. but they followed him and his dog when he turned down the block, and again as he turned by the park. I thought maybe about going up to him and asking 'do you realize you are being followed by half a murder of crows?' but I did not, and kept biking.

closer to my work, there is a fountain, normally filled with water, as fountains are apt to do, but in that moment, devoid of it's usual cache, the cement was rain wet, the submersible light fixtures exposed. so, too, drying out, were tens of coins, a rough glittering of mostly copper, some silver. I thought maybe about stopping, collecting them all, gathering up people's wishes and setting them free (er, reappropriating them), but I did not, and kept biking, circling the fountain once more before beelining it to work.

is magic still magic if it remains observed? or is there a participatory element that completes the equation?
I heard the word MAGIC on your lips.
I saw the word MAGIC on the book you pulled down.
it sits in my ears, lays flat against my eyes.
I can almost taste it.

yes, moths.

I pulled my white V neck T-shirt out the other day, I hadn't worn it since the cold weather started to set in, and noticed several small holes near the arm. Moth holes. This reminded me that I took my yellow wool button up out when the cold weather started to set in and found it riddled down the middle with tiny holes. I do recall a moth in my room months ago. I have not seen it in a while. Apparently, it has been feeding, and expanding its diet to include breathable white cotton. If it weren't for the fact that I have not seen said moth in weeks, I would be inclined to conclude that somewhere in my living quarters was hiding a GIGANTIC MOTH. I like moths. but I don't really want to room with them. I would share a bathroom with one. I'm basing this on the assumption that GIANT MOTHS, unlike my neighbor and their GIGANTIC GF, don't leave the bathroom floor inch deep in shower water.

I had a dream where Geode, upon diving/falling into a lagoon from the muddy path we were ascending, swam to shore as a dozen giant moths resting on the water followed her underwater path. one clung to her back as she exited the water and morphed into a kite backpack. she didn't notice so Ricki Martin, also in my dream, pulled out his phone to text Geode that hey there's a GIANT MOTH on your back. Whether or not he used caps has yet to be verified.

'fruit' flies, not 'hot sauce' flies.

I've fallen into the habit of placing a little morsel of food, whatever it is I might be snacking on at home, into an upturned kombucha bottle cap placed outside, just so, on the window sill. I do it as an offering of thanks, acknowledgment of abundance, appeasement of the insect gods, because I think it's kinda fun.

This evening (ed. note: this was a few days ago), while I supped on my beans and rice, the fruit flies would not let me be. ah yes, I had forgotten to dish them out a serving. silly me! but then, even after mounding their bottle cap bowl with half a dozen grains of rice, a bean and an ear of corn, they still hovered. what gives? – oh, I see. perhaps there is something to serving them first. before the way liberal application of tabasco sauce. the flies, it would seem, have not the same tolerance for spice as I do. my apologies. next time, bugs first, human last.