If I only had a neck; peeps; stoned @ peep place

This entry will have been written under the influence of cheerfully suppressant drugs. Should I stray from the paths of grammar, sense, or decency, allowances are to be made. The avocado compells due access to all liverwort in this, the season of bloom.

So. The neck bit. My neck hurts. Ah! if only ‘t’were so simple. Some few days ago I had opportunity to lift leaden weights, to move through all the ranges of all my motions with the resistance of gravity and (that Newtonian thing that escapes me just this moment), and I did just that. I lifted and, in response to my will and effort, my blood vessels expanded to supply my cravant (if there is such a word outside this, my cheerful delerium) muscles with that which seemed needful. I left the place of strenuous efforts (those less prolix would term it a ‘gym’, but let us scorn the lack of ambition that would permit us to rest there, at one syllable) somewhat over-worked. Very over-worked. In fact, I seem to have overworked just enough to let a muscle group (rhomboid, I think, if anyone cares and keeps score) clench into a striated-flesh knuckle. Having achieved its Gordian state, my body has chosen to rest; nor stretching nor rest, nor anything has given it the motivation needed to release the hold it has on pain, there just under my shoulder blade.

Today Othello (bollocks to pseudonymery!) Michael and his Imaginery Friend wished to go off to do teen-aged things with others of like temperment, and we took them off to do just that. Climbing into the car, I entirely failed to duck my head in the normal fashion, and boffed it on the side ofthe car. Damage to skull and chassis were minimal, but the sudden demonstration of leverage was crippling. As the poet has said, ouch. I leaned, wracked by dry sobs, waiting for the world to become its customary mnarra-loving place, and waited some more. Finally Bridgette — no, Shannon — had to drive, and I held myself as still as I could and fought the claustrophobic need to stretch my neck to relieve the discomfort.

The boys were dropped, and we went to the hardware store for, oh, I don’t remember. We didn’t get it, I know that. It was out of stock. So let’s say it was wax burritos, since I wouldn’t want them if they were in stock, and having them out of my reach should, therefore, please me. There were no wax burritos, and we wandered without, pining. I was careful to not move my head overmuch, and so missed the Horrible Fate that lay before me.


Hundreds of Peeps, fresh-cracked from their shells, cheeping and hopping and shitting and being just as fluffy and cute and smelly as they knew how to be. Yes, these were not the bland but harmless peeps of the marshmallow variety, but the flesh-and-blood sort, all poof and shiny eyes. It turns out they are free, ten of them, with purchase of a 25 pound bag of feed. Somehow, that seemed a deal that couldn’t be passed by, and we now have ten birds and feed enough for nearly a month. Fresh eggs, it appears, are in my future.

I can’t explain the need for chickens. I asked Shannon (you know her — used to be Bridgette) why we needed chickens, and she couldn’t answer, either. But, there they are. Chickens.

Peep. The cats are fascinated.

I have taken drugs. I have taken Flexeril and Darvocet, which combination has turned the world into a place filled with warm hues and sudden fits of laughter. The air is clarified molassasssasasssas, and I move through it only with effort, and slowly. I weave slightly when I walk, undoubtedly because of currents in the molas — thick brown sweet stuff.

I am cheerful and incompetent, and deeply moved to show that before the world; hence, I post. I go now, to

I don’t remember. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, though.


Bridgette was fired from her job yesterday.

Today she’s gathering up a list of places to apply and updating her resume. She’s planning to apply to nurseries and landscaping firms across the board.

She instructed me that, if I wanted my ass kicked for me, all I had to say was, “Maybe we should skip Writer’s Weekend this year.” I had just been thinking, “I’m still going to WW, even if I have to sleep in the car.” So, good on both of us, I feel.

I don’t seem terribly worried, maybe because she already has a plan for moving on to better things. This might even be a good thing; she generally dreaded going to work. If she can find something less toxic to her, that’s all to the good.


Sunday I rose early (at behest of the dog, who felt there were things that needed sniffing outside) and puttered about for a bit. I made coffee and drank it, made some biscuits and ate them. I read for a bit. Finally, I decided that the highest priority for the day was either fixing the truck or determining beyond doubt that it was beyond my abilities to fix.

[I write easily and well, and have a clear vision of what I need to write in my novel.]

Full of coffee and biscuits, I was cocky. I wrote a note for Bridgette: “There are biscuits warm in the oven for you. I have gone to the shop, where I am creating a sudden and breathtaking miracle of automotive repair.”

And then I did. All within 90 minutes, I found corrosion that was making things stick, I found three levers on the carb that were bent, found one mechanical connection that was rubbing against a housing (no, I didn’t cause any of these; I carefully preserved the bends and rubs as I had found them, when I worked on the carb)…I corrected all of these things as I came across them, checking the factory manual and moving with slow method.

And it worked. Vroom.

We took the truck for a test drive to the dump (where, I had decided, if it broke down I could just pay the fee and leave it), ditched a cubic yard of garbage, and came home.

I am utterly astonished. I wrought a sudden and breathtaking miracle. Huh. I shall begin talking myself up more frequently, to see what happens.

[I write easily and well, and have a clear vision of what I need to write in my novel.]

And oddity: the landfill transfer point used to have a shack where you paid a fee, then drove around to a large building where you dumped your rubbish and it was carted off to the landfill. The shack is now boarded up, and a new one in a better location is serving the same function. Four car lengths back from the shack is a speaker-microphone, as seen at drive-throughs everywhere, and a board showing the prices for dumping household trash, dumping compacted trash, buying compost, buying key lime pie, buying mocha —


The dump transfer station sells elegant desserts and espresso drinks, along with a few other items.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, uhm, one yard of household garbage, a mango smoothie and a pina colada smoothie.”

“That will be $19.67, pull around to the rear window.”

[I write easily and well, and have a clear vision of what I need to write in my novel.]


I wonder if I have a rhythm to my dysfunction bursts. If I have, that would seem to indicate a need for some sort of chemically-enhanced balancing. I’ve always sort of assumed that my mental problems were situational and habitual.