Gee, that doesn’t look anything like odd. Oh, did I say ‘odd’ – I meant ‘God’

(unedited photo, taken with a Kodak EasyShare Z915 at about 1pm on August 25th, from my front porch. Folks, this isn’t rocket science. It is absolutely impossible for me to forge pictures like this -in the thousands – with the amount of time I have.)

Here are some other things I photo-ed or wrote over the past couple of days. My third Blackberry in as many months died and then became lost. So, no more emailing myself. It’s for the best. I’d like my kids to see me actually use a writing instrument for more than a few minutes at a time.

Ah, yes – kids. What kind of prince takes his kids to school without a shirt on? That is seriously weird. Hopefully he puts one on before he enters the building. On that subject, what kind of selfish adversarial sort insists on separate classroom celebrations – I would think that, for one’s kid, one could suck it up for a half hour and be in the same room with me. Especially since I am generally agreed upon as being slightly strange, but mostly okay and sometimes even delightful.

Yup, that’s right. Delightful. Especially given how miserable some folks choose to be. I am pretty GOD DAMN delightful.

I don’t even think he knows about this graveyard of bubbles I have created here. There are some pretty lame lyrics that state my position somewhere in this post. I think I tinted them blue.

I am tired. However, staying up all night making an ass out myself for the sake of sad eyed children and animals everywhere (or something like that…?) and blowing up about 100 tiny water balloons with my breath to string onto the trees that face the house my boy slept in last night. And then to sit and wait, the ground cold and gravelly on my feet, my butt plunked onto a damn railroad tie. To sit and wait to tell my boy Happy Birthday. Well, it has all gotten me a little upset.


mostly triangular prism shapes…I have always been fond of the nails and thread pictures of ships, etc. that you find at Goodwill.


(I don’t think you all understand just how difficult it is to think about ever not knowing what I know now and how difficult it is for me to think about resuming a walking and talkingness that is remotely akin to comfortable numbness now that I know what I know.) (What is that I know? Well, I know I am sick to death of bustin’ my ass only to have someone keep saying, “You’re nothing.” – in action or word. Actually, if we talk about actions – there are quite a few folks who have erased me over the past few months. Thanks, that really freed me up to think about how much being erased, again and again and again – well, it’s really super great.)

Sorry for the all-directions chunks of handwritten text. I am extremely left handed for writing and using a clipboard is tough. Never mind. It’s hard to explain. Everything is. My scanner scans some images in as chunks…I just posted whatever I came up with. I am flying blindly at this point as to what to even make of any of it.

Excuse the poor justification of text and photo on the post entitled Sky Sez: Faith is Tired…
I forgot how impossible the blogger layout is if you opt for anything other than None, re: position.

Speaking of – the nice thing is, I am probably one of the few mostly-fully cognitively functional people in the world that is relatively, at this point – unbound from any organizational or social affiliation. Nobody has dibs on me (nor will they)…except the small bipeds, and they don’t own me…nor I them…we just love each other, because we are the same in some blood borne way.

Duh. They’re my kids.

Here’s an awesome recipe. I messed up the Joy of Cooking’s 1234 Cake by accidentally referencing the recipes for Ginger Cake and Flo Braker’s Pound Cake. However, I adjusted other things to compensate for the extreme baking powder and un-separated eggs. They are awesome, they taste like biscuits – but, they’re cupcakes! Sweet and Salty. It’s a contest winner, for sure. I may try to enter it. I am terrible at entering things. I don’t care enough about winning.

Great – I spend 20 minutes writing the teacher a note re: the difficult process of establishing a nightly homework routine when your child has a ridiculously hard time with writing and the nightly homework is super writing intensive and then, lovely, I get a call from the kids’ father that the teacher ‘wants to know what is going with the homework?’ – well, let’s see, we waste about an hour every night and the girl ends up crying – hating writing even more – and it’s the second week of school and she is in 1st grade and – – –

The boy’s birthday is usually a tough day for me. Onward. To bed for a moment and then up. Letterpress tomorrow. Horrible timing. I wish I had been able to do it when I had originally intended to. Oh well.


I just really wish someone would stand up for me. Nobody is standing up for me. Oh, f*ck it. A little late anyways. I am not being dramatic. Or exaggerating…I mean…beside my parents and my offspring…nothin’ – weird, huh?

Do you people think this a GOD DAMN joke?

What the f*ck is wrong with everybody?

I get upset when I am over-tired. I have a classroom party this afternoon. I am going to sleep. I will probably regret posting this. Who cares?

Well, I’d like to know.

Ya’ll are going to feel awfully strange when this gets published. And it will. Because it couldn’t be a more fantastic story…and it’s true. Except for Saltville. That’s fiction. It is – I am coming to realize, kind of like what I might be like, if I were a town. I wish I could move there.

You cannot – I have decided, take thousands of photographs of remarkably ordinary things, draw hundreds of pictures, and write about a thousand pages in one fucking year – and for all but two months of that I was working full-time and being snarled at from across a field – well, you just cannot do all that and end up with nothing to show…especially when about four thousand of your photos have some ambiguity of cloudliness.

So, yeah – it’s about time I got a little respect folks.

Actually, I think it’s about time I got A LOT of respect.

Please, just someone call someone. At least let the President know that his Spiritual Advisor doesn’t appear to give a damn about people like me.

Is there really anything to say?

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