moving

moving again, (over and over again)--farther north and closer to work.

simple

how heavenly is this groove?

any and all abrasive neurotic edges are smoothed out by this vista, so says i.

SPRUNG!

hot air, video game clouds plodding across the sky, animals stirring in every nook and cranny...every time i'm out in the bush now it's like the earth's creatures have spent the preceding hours making more of themselves...rabbits, squirrels, elk, deer, and bugs...god the bugs. i respect you, i know you occupy a very important position in the food chain etc...but i'm still not reconciled to your hot sticky buzzing dominance that's just around the corner. i'm looking at you, mosquito. let's hope this fine specimen above eats a million of you this spring.

back to work...

...well there goes the holiday, lovely while it lasted, wish you were there, etc.

In high school I worked at the local public library as a page. Endless hours placing recently returned books in their proper place...once that task was completed, it was time to go through entire sections of the library making sure every book was in the correct order according to the dewey decimal system. Insanely boring job, especially in the quiet dead of winter. Minus forty degrees celsius outside, dry and empty inside. However--I discovered many a good book in the process. Hidden away in a fiction corner, a copy of 'Opus Pistorum' by Henry Miller. I believe it has most recently been published under the title 'Under the Roof Tops of Paris'. A collection of the pornography he wrote to keep himself fed while living the bohemian life in Paris. An eye opener for an inexperienced kid to say the least. How it got into that library--who knows. I remember a quote from the introduction which passed the following pages off as a rollicking search for the 'good life'--chief amongst the requirements for said life was the perfect job. The perfect job seemed to be working in some sort of journalistic capacity (if I remember it correctly) where one could bunk off after a couple of desultory hours in front of the typewriter to drink, eat, and indulge in every combination of fornication possible. Not bad work if you can get it, I guess.

At the moment my perfect job is the standard Monday-Friday eight hours a day slog. Half hour for lunch, two fifteen minute coffee breaks...ah, the coffee break. Just long enough to want a smoke. I swear, coffee breaks are killing my desire to fully quit smoking.

I feel blessed to have the job I do, honest to goddess. I work in a beautiful place with good people. We are the first generation (in the west, anyway) to be raised with the idea that the world is our oyster, and there is nothing we cannot achieve if we put our mind to it. How true that is depends upon individual circumstance. I personally don't think I'm where I should be, but it's my own choices that have led me to where I am today.

BUDS

Had a great afternoon the other week with a couple of old friends...people who I hadn't seen in forever, and it was great to see them--parts of our conversation peppered with memories of people I haven't thought of for, well I can actually say--a decade or so. That whole milieu of people that you grow up with if you stayed in the same school area for years. The character that these little characters take on.

All the friends I've had over the years, all those peeps--so close to some then the connection fades and possibly comes back again. The friends I've had the longest are now mirrors that I can trust.

I remember a kid I used to play with when I was six or seven--I was in grade two, that I know for sure. Anyway, I remember the day he moved. We were hanging out, and he said he wanted to give me a hug before he left...and I refused! He chased me around his yard--I don't know what my problem was. He just wanted a hug before he left. Oh well--guy whose name I can't recall, I now hug you back.