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I shoot tons lots what's a good word obsessive amounts of photos but they're digital so no gain no cost of our daffodils blooming. Almost all of those photos? What's the Canadian word? They pretty much "suck." Are tossed in the first cut. And even so, I CANNOT throw away my entire since 2007 bloated library of predictable, repetitive shots.
That yellow is a very interesting drug. Spinning gold from straw. Addictive. Addiction has a bad name; there are mild addictions too: daffodils.
One part unflavored vodka. One part Flag Hill sugar maple liqueur. Cooled by red and green grape-lodged ice cubes.
And in my entirely personal financial news today: bought GE stock. I had cash on the sidelines: pocket; hole burning. GE does wind power. Love wind power. They've just introduced 500GB storage. Well, any advance there is tip of the hat country.
Pontiac deleted? Today's trifling sad news. My father's favorite second-hand car. I'll miss the brand (not enough to buy one). From the mount: "Too big to fail?" History says nothing's that big. (Citation: see Roman empire.) Too big to regulate is the pragmatist's translation.
Full disclosure: I am a mammal. To ward off Lyme disease and its shocking neurological transgressions, you must guise your mammalian nature so ticks disdain you. Wear rubber boots. Wear long sleeves. Sweat like a woodland spring.
The broom. Important for exposing the ledge treasure resident on this land. Why? So Jim can walk here -- stride here, to be objectively descriptive -- and see his eyes pop funny goo-goo, out of respect for the underlying geology.
L-to-r: grape hyacinth(es), the page in my diary where I collect "to do's" for France, daffodils showing off. And yes we should pray to whatever god appeals to us. The die god speaks my language.
And so ends the world as we know it. A new generation of comic book heroes emerges. This week scientists debuted a puppy that glows in the dark, thanks to bioengineering that borrowed a red fluorescent gene from a sea anenome. I wonder if it smells like fish?
I trimmed out more grass to extend my rock walk; which was my weekly contibution to our spinning planet. I think of it as a lawn-bound jetty floating in a teacup of gabbro. It's taking on the dimensions of obsessive outsider art, like the castle a French postman built out of stones he collected over decades of delivering mail. I like stones. Stones are immortal, relatively speaking. Stream of consciousness pushed too far: "I prefer stones to relatives."
Our land makes its own peat, given enough millenia. I'm just penetrating a deposit cuddled between two ledges. My foot, upper right corner. Yes, I am finding Irish kings' gold treasure, too; dented, as if a fight took place and this was flung away for safekeeping. Tonight Simone and I watch Quantum of Solace, hoping for brain death.
The FBI called Simone today, doing a background check on a state judge nominated for a federal judgeship. I can speak to the character of the rocks I haul around the land. (Lichen is admirable.) Simone can speak to the character of federal judges. I kneel. In awe. These are my baby's pedicured toes. These are the toes the FBI asked for informed opinion.