Saturday, May 12, 2007

All Boxed In and Strung Out

Hoo,'s a hot day out there. Okay, for Texas it's a glorious spring day. Yeah. Except that I am in jeans and a t-shirt, hauling boxes to and fro. I know - there is an invention called "shorts". My peeps, these legs - these wormy deathly white legs do NOT see the light of day unless they are over 500 mls from anyone I know. In my own neighborhood? Not on your life. Besides, there is that whole skin cancer thing. I lean upon that as a very good reason.

I've made a couple trips to our house trying to get the fragile and silly stuff moved while Trooper works. Mostly it was the framed photos and prints and that assorted kitchenware that I know we will not touch for a month. Still, it was up and down the stairs and in and out of the heat and I am now a wee bit tuckered. I think I shall make like the natives and siesta in the heat.

I find this whole blogging thing relatively irksome. I will see a thing and think it'd make a good post but then come posting time all those interesting snippets are lost. But I remember this one - the topic of "urban" vehicle decor. Namely, spinners. At least I think that's what they are called. What on earth possessed someone to think that the one thing they needed most was a way to depict their vehicle as still moving whilst standing still? I mean, where is the sense in it? Oh, I know - one could call it a form of art or expression. But what of the base fact of it? What on earth would it matter if you DID seem to be moving whilst still? It seems obvious to me that I must be missing something really critical in the thought process.

And then there is the habit of boys wearing their pants around their groin. I daresay that if any of them knew from whence it came and the symbology of it, they would hasten to yank them back up and belt them for all they were worth. It comes from the prisons, you see. The punks had to wear their pants that way to indicate that they were punked - ready for the taking, if you get my drift. Unwilling, maybe. But it is the truth. So why do all these young men consider it a sign of...toughness? Is it trying to say, "Even if I was sexually enslaved in prison I'd still be a mo-fo, boyyyeee"? Sigh...I seriously cannot comprehend the concept.

But then life offers me a lot of those sorts of conundrums. I was meant for the Victorian Age, I think. I'd have fit in nicely. I think that is why I am so much more comfortable in the hinterlands. I don't mind the city and amusements therein. But I don't need it. Hell, I grew up in Chicago. I sincerely do NOT need it. I need a place where you can hear the birds and your thoughts. Where there is a vista, even if it is filled with blowing, waving hay. (Is it hay while growing or only after harvest? Must add that to the list of questions.)

I miss Georgia sometimes. The spring with the azaleas and dogwoods in mutual bloom and grace - that most of all, I think. Oh, it's glorious and definitely a match for the bluebonnet season. But there is no wind there, really. Not like here - a constant wind blows so that even if it's scorching outside you at least feel as though you could cool off.

Ah - I meant to remember being Mother's Day wknd and all. I was packing my office - much of which has not been unpacked since the move - and came upon a file case. The others were empty (they'd had mom's ancient stacks of bills paid) so I'd assumed this one was, too. But no. Photos from her youth of family I don't know, letters from us kids all filed separately, some crocheted pot holders that likely came from her adored Aunts, and other such things. Quite a coincidence, really. It didn't make me sad - she was trying to tell me something. And we were both pleased that the word got through.

So that's the day so far. How I wish that damned granite table would sell. It's on ebay and craigslist but no takers. We really dread moving it but we will if necessary, and store it in the garage. It'd make an incredible kitchen island top - or even a really special outdoor tabletop if one got a very sturdy wrought iron base. I don't truly want to sell it - I adore its coloring and strong beauty. But I think it needs to move on along with the rest of the past. Slowly, I am divesting myself of the more onerous pieces of that detritus. But this one...well, I'll miss it.

Alrighty, break's over. Time to do some laundry and maybe get another set of boxes staged for the post-siesta load. C'mon sundown...

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