Around Here

T he morning awakens in auditory strata: A dog that barks at dawn. Then the mourning doves (“ Mourning - as in ‘I’m sorry you’re dead” - as Walter once explained), and their tiresome boo-hooing. The gathering low roar of distant traffic. Finally the mockingbirds, now at the peak of their spring tour. There’s a strong songster, Gilly’s’ progeny perhaps, who serenades me awake. He seems to prefer that I listen obliquely, growing shy if I listen with too much focus. How he knows this, I haven’t a clue. So I lie in bed a while, pretending to listen to the mourning doves (who like the attention), while surreptitiously listening to the mockingbird. Then the coffee gurgling in the kitchen sputters and roars, bringing the morning music, and the freshly minted day’s peculiar and fleeting lucidity, to a close.

The Augsburg College symphony performed a pops concert at the beach. I’d never heard a live performance of Gounod’s “Funeral march of a marionette” before. They did a nice job, crisp and fey, but not without its missteps, which Squeeze thought improved the experience immensely. “I love amateur performances,” said Squeeze, sipping his Cran Bam and eyeing the bass player. “Amateur theatrics, amateur sports, amateurism. The more imperfect, the better.” "Reverse Kabuki." "Your outside is in when your inside is out..." “Like when a digression is the best part of a conversation...” “That’s what I’m getting at. A fabulous tear in the texture of expectations.” “You have highly evolved taste.” “I'm beyond refined.” “Cran Bams and amateur theatrics...” “What could be better?” "Tink..."

M y libido makes appealing what a clear mind would perceive as absurd. But as someone pointed out, our limbic system overrules our cerebral cortex every time. Genitals are crude and stupid. I like the idea in The Man Who Fell To Earth - an orgasm touched off, under the right circumstances, by the right kind of stroke on any surface of your body. The iBod Touch. I wonder if there’s a yoga exercise for this. Sting - if you’re reading my blog, contact me.

B y late afternoon, it was already cooler. By the time I went to bed it was cold enough to close the sliding doors. But an hour after falling asleep I awoke, wanting to hear the wind. I slid one side open and threw another blanket on the bed. The trees outside were lighted by the moon. I thought of Walter and Joseph’s “summer pavilion” in a side yard at the farm, a birthday present from Joseph, a small screen house he made, dimly transparent and open to the four breezes. It had a vintage screen door, thoughtfully salvaged from somewhere, decorated with red wood trim. The inside was appointed by Walter: a pair of futon cots, a Chinese carpet, a couple of adirondack chairs, and a few items from the collection, a mid-century mahogany tray table, an oil lamp, a terra cotta pre-columbian deity, a few books. The overall look, as usual, was that the little pavilion had worn its location under the elms forever. I listened to the wind and watched, through the screen of the lanai, the trees shi...