Crane and Alley

Melt

It's the kind of sandwich that is supposedly better because its bread is heat-dried.
Cheese is implied.
Goo is an intended result.
If you thought my faux-etry was irritatingly cryptic before.
Watch out for fragments.
Shrapnel can damage more at once and as effectively toward mortality.

Salvador Dali, I was told, meant The Persistence of Memory to be about impotence. The reference cited here does not agree. But I only skimmed it.

Float above the innuendo and stick with the present.
Past things are so Proustian and painful.
Death, or severance, perhaps is merciful. When there is no chance to re-encounter, there is peace.
I can't tell you what I mean (no, no one is impotent in that sense around here; I also was told that Dali was ridiculously in love with his wife, Gala, who was ten years his senior, that she served as his model and muse, that they had an open marriage and he worried about keeping his hold on her).
Well.
Nothing poetic about that.

Persistence of memory indeed.
An ache I could not destroy with three hours of back-bending plant-pulling, blood-drawing thorn-chopping, rather tedious brick-moving, and stomach-crunching push-mowing (through a foot of zesty thick zoysia grass in the sun of the back yard).
Oh, I am so weary of the four-hour night.

My memory of late has no anchors.
I can't distinguish individual ones in order to call up mundane sought details ___ what time I worked or what I had to eat.
Little food should be easy to recall.
Stick with the present.
The portal to parallel.
Yes ___ that is the blank.
Is open for another day.
Ignore.

But I was "so happy."

But I've been happy anyway.
Lack of sleep.
Lack of food.
Lack of money.
Lack of time.
And one more.

They've ruined birds, too

I won't go into the others.

"Now we will know what Twitter is!"

I love Mighty Girl, and here, she has written a nice piece that is not intended to answer our dumb questions (friends, some of your ages are showing) about Twitter, but actually does. An etiquette piece explains it so much better than a simple, boring expository one.

But I'm still mad Twitter bastardized the cutie bird. I'm not happy about Cricket wireless, either. Or that Snoopy works for Met Life insurance. E.T. didn't have a choice about the Reese's Pieces. I guess I accept wide-eyed and stenciled mascots in Japan, but here, it makes me uncomfortable.

Counting games

I know exactly how many houses I own, and it's a fraction. It's a great nod of faux politeness that he deferred the Kindergarten question with an admittance of uncertainty. "Maybe I can pretend they didn't ask something so rude."

It seems obvious he's embarrassed by the fact of having four or more domiciles, or he would have openly guessed (were it true he did not truly know). I blunder into all kinds of admissions constantly for lack of guile. I'm no naif, though; I always lock everything, I am literal in person to the point of being unpoetic, and I have hardly ever been screwed over.

I hate it when people answer yes-or-no's or any of the "W's" with a generalized evasion like "did not have sexual relations."

"Do you like it?"

"Well, the color is bold, which is good, and the balance of elements is structured to turn the figure into a representation of the person's role, and the use of torn paper underneath the paint helps accent the brushstrokes, all amounting to a pleasing composition that is all the more compelling because it signifies a key point in the artist's rejection of the previous forms."

I do not resent people's ability to have what amounts to several of their own hôtels scattered about the globe. After all, it's a dream I used to entertain. The comedy act ran thin, however, and my audience fled. Do I like it? No. But there's nothing to be done about it, except make some rich friends and play on their dime for a brief and shallow spell.

Those of us who incessantly read certain fiction know that such a plan is flawed; however, I have found my proximity-based relationships with the destitute to be just as fleeting and unsatisfactory (on an emotional level, I mean. On a physical one, of course, the rich people have better food, furniture, and discussion matter). In other words, most people you just happen to meet and then have to collaborate with to produce some kind of product or service, especially ones with whom you do not share a general economic level, are not friends and pass in and out of "life" based on their usefulness, or, as stated bluntly, locative association.

Then there are the ones that are different. And those are good to have. But you can't love everyone, no matter what Jesus says, because on Earth, time is limited. Love does not multiply like a magic penny, contrary to the children's song. Spend it, lend it, and you'll have so many people vying for your time and attention that you will forget whatever it used to be that you wanted to do and whatever it was that you used to enjoy thinking about.

Site of lawsuit

These are the annuals well-tended on the grounds of Children's Mercy Hospital.

Even I knew that

The adage "it is easier (or better) to ask forgiveness than permission" does not apply outside of the culture whose moral relativism created it.

"We don't want to go without taking those books. It cost us a lot of money to bring them here," Klein said. "They're saying that it's illegal to bring the Bibles in and that if we wanted to, we had to apply ahead of time for permission."

I thought that you always looked up the rules when you went someplace with a passport.

Not a hint

Only sky

Wyandot

History moment: I didn't realize there was a Wyandot tribe graveyard in the middle of downtown Kansas City, Kansas. There is a field of unknown and unmarked graves, as well as a section with "knowns." (There is also a great view of downtown Kansas City, Missouri, to the east.)

And there is a spot where you can read about displacement, migration, killings, and even something bad that happened on my birthday before I existed.

Of course, there is the mitigating factor of the Mason-built place that now sports a flashing façade and smells like air-conditioned cigarette smoke on the outside (even when the entrance doors were closed).

And the biggest HVAC unit I've seen on ground level. Note to would-be copper thieves: there is a formidable fence and live guards. Besides, there are Indian graves watching.

Fate

Somewhere in the depths of a faux forest of youth, a tiny gnome cries "conspiracy" but knows that coincidence and God are just rolling the usual dice, the sort of gamble that makes the free pink bracelets handed out by one group at the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure this morning reading "Pray for the Cure" ridiculous (or at least ironic) to someone like me:

I'm sad that Bernie Mac (50) died the other day (from complications due to pneumonia, already having sarcoidosis), that Morgan Freeman (71) nearly killed himself recently while driving (flipped the car in Mississippi) and is apparently also getting sued for divorce from his wife of 24 years, and that Isaac Hayes (65) died today next to his treadmill (I'm thinking heart issues).

Dammit, stop messing with the excellent entertainers I like!

Heath Ledger was good, too, and far younger, but personally I had no fan-famousperson connection to him — no, I never watched any of his films (I'm one of those). Plus, he died from an overdose of things "everyone" (like his stupid doctor) knows you shouldn't mix (though Lord knows most of us want to).

Velocity

Making recommendations for taking in some breezes created by 50 cyclists at a time up on the recently (and ever-ongoingly) restored Cliff Drive in Historic Northeast. (Photo is from Kansas City, Kansas criterion portion Friday night.)

Check out the 45th annual Tour of Kansas City today. There is nothing like the sharp turns and grueling climb presented by this course, near the Concourse, Kansas City Museum, and other cultural points of interest.

If you need further incentive, they should have Boulevard beer again this year.

Or, if you can't stand the urban, they are flat-track racing tomorrow in Overland Park, Kansas.

(Insert joke about men who shave their legs and wear revealing spandex pants and funky clippy shoes here.)

Pretty fair

The carousel had seventeen animals
The wooden horse was alone
There were corndogs everywhere
I didn't want to go home.

The man said step up here
Your weight needs no scale
We can determine gravity
I'll pay you if I fail.

Anubis fell out of the Ferris wheel car
Feathers flew past the balance
Beauty is always skin-deep
Honesty is the challenge.

Headlines are hard

That lovely feeling of accomplishment has faded. Funny how the next round of must-do tasks wipes that out fairly quickly.

And, despite the fact that at 7 a.m. today and 7 a.m. tomorrow I had / will have a beastly headache from staying up so much, here I am once again, one hour and 52 minutes after I declared I was going to bed. Blame the Johnny Cash feature on PBS, blame computers and the fact that laptops mean that work is portable into the once-sacred hearth zone.

School starts again in 13 days. I don't know where that is going to fit, financially or temporally. What's more important, forging ahead with some made up "plan," or a rational evaluation of actual capacity? What is my capacity? Is this pace healthy in any way? I haven't felt sick in a while. Maybe I'm over it.

I cut the grass last night. Finally. I'm sure the south neighbor will do hers again tomorrow, even though she did it Sunday night. She has a regular gas-powered mower, and we don't. That means she was violating air quality karma (and being noisy when it's relaxation non-work time) and that my dusk-to-dark clipping and ripping was not. She strikes me as competitive about the lawns' height. I could care less — ours was barely up anyway, since it's not stupid zoysia grass like her yard and our back yard. Thick and stupid and aggressive trailing viney grass like that makes me mad. I mowed a path in the back yard and quit.

I feel bad about cutting our grass when the north neighbors' is high. I feel like I'm making them feel badly, when in fact, like I said, I don't care about grass height. The legal limit is 10 inches anyway. The north-north neighbor came out this evening and cut both of those lawns. Hmm. I hope everyone is all right. Aforementioned south neighbor's roommate / partner / friend went off in an ambulance the other Sunday. I noticed that she was back, and she seems o.k. They are not walking the dogs, presumably because it's too hot, so I haven't seen them in person to ask. And anyway, does one ask about that kind of thing? Concern versus privacy.

10-4

Ten hours on work Sunday.
Six of sleep starting when August 4th was already here.
Already 10 o'clock in the morning.
Have accomplished five correspondences,
one packing of magazine box,
several "do this, please, intern" assignments,
and zero nutrition.
Must pick a focus. So much easier to do at home.
Soon, 30 boxes to unload. Not a useful cloud in sight.

Miss-marketing

In honor of the muskrat that D. discovered recently on Cliff Drive, I should like to say that not only did he miss out on a great feast (apparently), he also could have cashed in on the fact that the GORSUCH (such gore?) company weaves their "angelina coat" out of such fur.

Holy expenditures, PETA-man, whose research justified sending a ski-apparel catalog with $1,000 coyote boots and $1,000 sport-specific pants to someone like me, who doesn't happen to have a cottage at Aspen?

You have to see page 3, however: ah, yes, the st. moritz poncho, crafted of Italian mink, available for a mere $10,430.

I recognize that location from Lily Bart's world, of course. Maybe the catalog people think that the "Blessings Coming and Blessings Going" mail from the mystery church — which advised that I put the two enclosed pennies in my shoes, walk a few steps and then put one inside and one outside the door — really is set to work, eh?

To A., who has experience writing catalog fodder:  it is of note that this one contains nary a narrative, just the basics of fabric and sizing.  They have even Frontgate beaten on the way rich people must know what they want and require no flowery language to induce spending.

ID me

One reason not to keep on the porch light is coleopteraphobia.

Ate two

Just a pun on the date. Not talking about batter-dipped weiners anymore.

Been sleeping like a baby. The kind that doesn't sleep through the night (the kind that most actual babies are, in fact, making one question the origin of such expressions — though, yes, I have seen kids and passed out drunks not wake up when all but the walls were falling down around them). The kind that doesn't have to be anti-sentence fragment for, please, please, just one hour or so.

I'm sick of waking up so many times a night, sick of cycling down so many times during the "day." Whose idea was it to go 16-8 all in a row anyway?

Up at 8. Fine, fine. Worked. Fine. Had to go outside to go take photos at Union Station (sadly cube art is only up a few days and won't be there tomorrow), but wasn't I lucky I didn't have to walk? The AC has been running for an entire hour just now. Shoot. Then there was a grocery trip, about $60, which was charged. Don't ask, don't tell.

Granny Smith apples are $6.50 a bag right now. Yes, I understand about seasonalism and such, but they haven't been under $3.99 for a year regardless. If I knew I'd be here long enough, perhaps I'd plant some trees. There really is no room for trees in the yards, though. I could dig out the stupid bushes that didn't quite "take" (previous owner planted poorly).

Won't think about that until the fall, though. The grass is high, the leaves from the storm are tackily all strewn still. I've become the homeowner-type my grandparents could never abide/understand. How can anyone let it go that long? Well, for one, it's hot. For another, I have too much employment-work to do.

Stopped by in-laws to get free tomatoes, fine. Groceries in car did not melt. Home again, still hadn't eaten more than a cookie, 2 p.m. Something I can't recall transpired, probably work, oh, and some birdseed sweeping, ah, yes, I recall, picking the two non-worm-infested tomatoes on my porch and dumping out the maggotty sludge bucket, my composting efforts, onto the brush pile designated for the purpose. I am not going to be raising fruit flies anymore. Screw it.

Making the salsa took a minute. Time flies to about 4 p.m., when she eats. Fine. Only took 30 minutes, and that was stretching it. Came back to office area, did a few more updates to work Web site, should have been revived and all, but sat on bed for some reason, looked at Lily Bart's* peregrinations for a few minutes, and then, can it really be that I feel like I'm drunk and just have to fall asleep? Already, for no reason?

Then I got up. That was an hour ago. I remember, yes, same air conditioner round. Must be the hottest part of the day. Nothing abnormal when other animals enjoy (sit out / sleep through) the sun-slant hours.

My other option was going to see Batman at the IMAX. I probably would have stayed awake, and then I would have felt guilty for being tired now and unable (unwilling) to slog through four more hours of webbing writing. Still, same results. Maybe I'll wake up tonight / tomorrow around 3 or 4 and feel rejuvenated.

I think I have what Diane has.

* Since when does she have red hair? Wha? I have read this book 20 times (not kidding, o.k., maybe 10), and I should say her hair color is never disclosed. If anything, she's a blonde. It's Undine Marvell who is the red-head. May Archer the blonde, and Madame Olenska, the "dark beauty." Note to kids: Cliff Notes are not always right.