The Weekend

p e e k s . i n .

I'm back! Weekend was crazy. And beautiful. And strange.
I am an inwardly impatient and furious person. I went with outwardly slow and mellow people. A mix like salty and sweet. Kettlecorn. That was us, in the world, down the street. The town was a ghost town. And then I went to a dead town. And then I went to a crazy town. Alabama, Alabama, Alabama. Sometimes there is nothing more stange and beautiful than car-accident women dancing in front of metal detectors. This trip reminds me of that. And it reminds me what to say when people ask me why I am here. It's not fake crazy. It's not wannabe crazy. It's not crazy just to be crazy. It's crazy when it is crazy. And when crazy is crazy because it's crazy, it's really just real. It's reality. And reality is more sane than non-reality. So all the crazies are just sane and real. And they are more true than me. I am humbled by the twitching eye and turkey speak.

The garden of paradise.

I have photos! I think. Maybe you want to see the beautiful crazy.


5 . 3 0 a m .

Somehow now I'm one of those people. One of those people who say 'no, I get up at 5.30'. One of those people who get up on the first alarm. And oh how I do. And then magically I am ready. And then I am in the park with my friend, walking, walking, speeding, racing, alongside the sun as it rises. I took a photo of the sun as it rose this morning. And of my friend in front of it. I hated stopping for even a second but I had to take the photos. Later over the pond a heron swooped and landed and beauty beauty gasp. But I did not stop twice. No mam. I gasped and tripped over the world for a split second and heard mumurs from my friend. But step step stamp stamp still we walked. Past everyone. Past the insane people. Past the normal people. Past the perverts. Past the dog-walkers. Past the beginning of time. Walking on the edge of the world with a hiccup in our step.


s l i p p e r s .

Boy did not want to go to Walmart where I could get the best novelty slippers. None at Kmart. None at Target. None at a variety of fashion stores. None like at the demonic Walmart. But no! No Walmart says boy! So I settle for just funky. Just funky polka dot feet. With pom-poms which will inevitably be chewed off by one of my four mischievious cats. I'll take it.


o r g a s m i c . s e c r e t .

Want to know it? I found the tofu. I FOUND THE TOFU. Baked. BakedBAKEDbakedBAkedbaKED. I always had wet, sloppy, hit you in the eyeball, spill over in the fridge tofu. Gak. Soppy. Mushy. Moosh. Licking slime off the fish tank wall, sliding in swamp mud and drowning in day old porrigde tofu. And then, with a beacon of light and the singing of angels, I found it. Baked Tofu. You can slice it thin. You can chunk it up. You can carve your name in it and call it Henry. If your name is Henry. And now I am a fan. A fan I am. Of the tofu. THE tofu. Of the baked. Try it. Get it. You'll never go back to slushbucket again. I promise. I give you my word. I'll even carve a baked tofu bible to swear it on.


p h o t o s .

Photos soon. I swear it. There's art in all this, somewhere. ;)