Dinnyland

Took the fam to Disney World to celebrate the onset of my 61st year. Were ten days in and around Orlando, two of which I got to spend at Cape Canaveral's Kennedy Space Center, and one of those as an "Astronaut In Training," a special gift from my darlin' daughters.

Amazed at the scope of Disney's operation and their 66,000+ employees' relentless pursuit of customer satisfaction. Even the guy whose job is picking up litter was at it, noticing Grandson's site map was crumpled and wrinkly, offered to fetch one to replace it. Only one day of rain. All the Dinny Lands terrific save Epcot, a disappointment.

Rode Tower of Terror three times in an hour, Space Mountain twice in half an hour, and my other faves, Splash Mountain and Aerosmith a couple times.

The girl managed to put on a full turkeyed Thanksgiving dinner, and all seven of us were able to live together in one house with no bloodshed; a minor miracle.

Crash Tested Dummy

It's mostly her fault, as you'll soon see.

It's been almost 16 months since I got the new knee, and I guess she just figured it was time to give it a good wringing thrash.

She comes home after tending the grandkids, starts taking in the laundry off the line, putting my well deserved dinner together, and remarks, "Since Herb is mixing stucco for the front of the house, why not have him use some of it to attach those tiles that have come off the roof over the front porch?"

Sounds innocuous, not the least devious, right? I carefully consider my options; nothing here to force me out of my chair in front of the Suns game, so being charitable yet cautious I intone an "Ungh, I guess." Then it came -

"Ok, they're down behind the pool. Why don't you go bring them up and put them out front where he'll see them?"

Damn! Should have seen that one coming.

Groaning, mumbling and muttering I rousts myself, puts the game on pause, and trundles down the hill in the gloaming through the underbrush. I collects an armload of fragile mexican roof tiles and heads back up the hill thinking it's about time to cut back some of these bushes in case I ever come down here again and one of the roots of one of the bushes reaches out, grabs my foot, and the ground rises up and smites me, kerbang on the knee.

The ensuing crash of the shattering tiles and my groveling around in the dirt brought quick response from the conniving laundry wench, who insisted that I get back in my chair, brought an ice pack and a glass of wine, and barbecued pork chops with buttered squash and potato salad for her poor, damaged sweetie.

But how quickly things can change.

After we've et, I'm rubbing my belly, trying to elicit a belch to compliment her, she says, "How's that knee doing?" "Huh? Oh, ok I guess." "Then take these dirty dishes to the kitchen, bring me a bottle of water, and stay the hell away from the good china."

Invocation

Invocation

O God--who art dust mote and fern spore,

salt crystal and dog-star, who art refinery smoke,

cumulus, leaf-rot, dishwater and spindrift--

how can I know thy invisible movements

through this world, when thou inhabit even

the debris of lives, the perforations of years?

God, who wears the green mask of death,

who visits the world in wisps of prayer,

how can I divine thy face through my tears?

Give me some sign--a thumbprint, a fragrance

of hyacinth, stigmata of coal on my brow--

that I may steep my silence in faith;

show me thy secret handshake welcoming

the weeds, thy luminous smile, thy mind

that spins the world wildly on its axis--

consecrate me as thou would the tiger's yawn,

offering itself like the poor man's bowl,

to the terrified fawn, to the wayward dove--

and I will do thy bidding, polishing words

so they gleam like ice, abandoning my rage

to kneel before thee, swallowing my doubt.

But there is no answer when I call out,

and my longing darkens my throat, my mouth.

How can I lift my eyes to a gutted sky?

O God, who art neither father nor son, nor

holy ghost, who art haloed by radium clouds,

beloved by millions of sparkplugs and ants,

thou who nestles in war's lap, in the breasts

of desire, who conspires with the darkest joys,

who art as amorphous as a map of stillness--

I cry out to thee again and again, over

and over, and only the wilderness answers,

and the dangerous world's laughter--

by Maurya Simon, from Ghost Orchid (Red Hen Press).

Where The Wild Things Are

Interminable.

A Curse On Your Ark, Noah

Too many animals.

The girl decided that our ancient sloth "Snapdog", who wears an orange cat's skin, "needs company" since we're away so much. And in the girl's book, two of anything is way better than one, and since we always see things the same way (it's just that most of the time she sees them first) we relieved the pound of of a pair of testicle pummeling (see previous post) pussy cats. And boy howdy, does he have company.

Not a formula for a good night's sleep, what with said sloth pretty certain he has dibs on our bed and his vituperous assertions that those dibs are exclusive.

Then about 3:30 this morning the javelinas return in hopes of another feast of flowers and herbs that the girl insists on laying out for them. Some times they just tear everything out of the pots and strew dirt around the patio, but this morning they were squeezing in between the trellises and the house and banging and rooting and snorting and about 4 I finally went out in sandals and shorts and hissed at them and clapped my hands and 12 to 15 of them scurried off to the south, more afraid of the apparition than the sounds it made, I'm sure.

Back to bed, shovel the kittens out of the way. They take that as an invitation to play scratch and tickle. I just want some sleep, dammit.

Now come the coyotes, in full throat. Might as well be right in the bedroom, singing into both sets of windows. They sound kind of neat when they're off up the mountain, but when they're close and I'm trying to get back to sleep, it ain't neat. And now I read that some young woman in Canada was killed by coyotes?

This morning I ask, "Weren't those damned pigs and coyotes something?!"

"You know, I thought I heard something."

The girl is going to have to start helping out with this wildlife circus act at night. She's all done with the laundry and cooking and filing and so on by the time she joins me in bed. Why should it fall solely onto me?