Monday, August 31, 2009
Early last week G and I had just got into the bath for a long summer night's splash, when I noticed the yellow billowing at her end of the tub. She has obviously been pissing in our bath water as a regular thing, along with always adding the fuzzy sumac clusters, the juniper berries, and the dried pine needles she always puts in. All the herbs and flotsom turn the water to an Adirondack river amber after an hour or so.
We get in a lot of tub time, and G is a real mermaid in the water. Mermaids don't climb out of the sea to piss.
Piss power is one of her nut issues that I don't argue with her. She had already told me more than once that ammonia is the best cleaning agent. And she mixes piss water with vinegar to mop the floor. The former President of India or somebody used to eat gold and drink his own urine every morning.
I'm learning. She explains to me, waving her arms with the floating leaf tattoos. I just take it in.
She has a small red guitar with a cracked sound box and no case, which she pretends to play when she pretends to sing. She says she is writing an "Ergonomic Memoir" all in her head. And she says I might need to help her with the second draft..
Be her secretary maybe.......... but then she says she wants to be my muse.
She thinks she really is some kind of fairy, and she definitely is a witch. She is just like she used to be our first time around, only more so. She looks forty at most, and she has to be sixty at least.
She doesn't act her age. She puts spells on me, but has all kinds of conflicting ideas about what I should be twitched into doing. Maybe building a barn and starting a feral cat rescue and garlic farm here, or maybe moving back to Bridge House, or both. And build a high-heat, Hopi style, adobe outdoor oven in the yard. I put up with the over-stimulation and with her transparent, watery blue eyes . She could probably get me to do most anything. She could sell piss-cola to penguins.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My editor slash brother Davey's problem........ as simply as I can state it,....... is that , deep in his heart, he doesn't really believe that other people exist.
This is a big problem if you are related to him in any way, and especially if you live too damn near him, Like I do here at Dog's Plot..
Anyway, this morning G fixed me her special French Canadian Toast, using our chicken eggs, rather than the traditional gull or tern eggs.
"Deliciosso," is what she promised, and I don't think that is a French Canadian term, but she was right. G has cooked and chored at all kinds of Inns from the Extreme SouthWest, to the far NorthEast, traveling with a French Cook's knife about sixteen ax-handles long.