Pepper pickle.

George and Linda lived at the top of the cul-de-sac.
They had a big house, and a lovely garden. I spent many hours helping
them in the garden. I learned what dill and thyme were, and hens and
chicks.
I don't remember how we became friends. But they seemed to take a
particular shine to both me and Jonathan. And we loved them.
The first time I ever saw the internet was in George's office. I
didn't understand it., but he seemed to think it was amazing. The
computers were still black with green pixels. Remember those?
Linda gave me pottery lessons. I learned how to make pinch pots, and
we even threw things on the wheel. I remember how that room smelled.
Especially when the kiln was on.
On tuesdays we would read aloud. More like, she would read. I remember
Linda crying when Prince Caspian died. There is some scene about a
thorn in Aslan's paw. She cried.
George taught me about long division when I struggled with it. Linda
taught me how to make pickled peppers. My fingers smelled sweet and
spicy for days.
We moved away when I was twelve or thirteen, and eventually lost contact.
I was heart broken when I heard that they got divorced.. I didn't
really believe it. I still don't really believe it. They are just
always ever George and Linda to me.
In the garden, George whistling.

Find out what it means to me.

I will respect you from the start, but once you lose it, you have to
earn it back.
And if you demand it from me, I will respect you even less.
Respect is not a right. And while we all have bad days when steam
blows out our ears, if you give it time - or even say sorry, you will
find respect still there. It's the constant demanding and the talking
talking talking that wears me out.
Respect, and even LIKE is found in humility, not the weilding of power.
No one likes a brute.
This is why I try not to talk to my boss, who is writing me up for not
checking my email everyday.
It's because I can't stant the constant barage of emails about
cigarettes. I choose to let them stock pile and read them all at once.
Unfortunately, I missed emails about a staff meeting.
My bad, I know. But I said sorry.
If a man worries about becoming a joke, he should try not to be one.

The best weather.

This is the nicest weather, the kind where you choose the sunny side
of the street.
The sky is more blue, and you are just comfortable in a cardigan. The
trees, I'm sad to say, though it makes them more lovely, are turning
rusty.
Acorns are on the ground, and chestnuts will be soon.
When I remember how it was this time last year, I am entirely grateful.
Grateful that I'm not in my bathtub trying to get a grip on my stupid
fucking heart, which is where I spent most of last September.
There is a reason why thanksgiving happens when the sky is bluest and
the apples are crispest and the trees are yellow and gold.
So thanks to the trees and sky and even to bathtubs.

Whale of a Tale.

There are good stories out there.
There are good stories in here. The problem is capturing the stories.
Finding words and phrasing and proper punctuation.
I love listening to stories on the radio.
Voices that crumble at the sad parts, and laugh a little when the
story gets embarrassing.
I have a friend who spins amazing yarns. He knows they're good
stories, but he won't write them down.
There is something so comforting and wholesome about a good story
telling. Kindergarten without pictures, but maybe there will be
snacks.
Mark Twain had a huge mantel over his fire place. It was filled with
pictures and objects, all lined up along it. On one end there was a
painting of a cat, and at the other end, a picture of a girl.
To tell stories to his children, they would start at one end and weave
a tale involving every object on the mantel, until they reached the
other side.
I love that story. You can imagine it.
But then, it was Mark Twain; the best spinner of yarns...ever.

It is the things we keep hidden that have the most Power.
I have been thinking about this quite a bit. Everyone has an
undercurrent of something powerful and dark.
We give these things their power, and they take it from us.
It's an unfair relationship.

It takes a certain amount of courage, I think, to expose nasty,
sniveling, dark, truths. But they are just hungry naked things.

French Milk

I think I like coffee more for the ritual of it, than for the caffeine
of it. And now I am living ritual free in the mornings, and I don't
quite know how to get out of bed.

Paris planning is getting underway.
The emails have started.
Emails are both convenient and frustrating. It's hard to say what you
want without sounding like a whiney baby. And it's hard not to get
annoyed at the language other people use sometimes.
Sisters.

Got tipped 5 euros last night. Gonna put it in a shoe box.

Bought this really sweet book called French Milk. It's about Paris.
Food, mostly.

I have decided that if this new way of eating is a lifelong thing, I
am breaking it for Paris.
There is no way I'm going to Paris and not eating chocolate croissants
and a cafe au lait for breakfast at least every other day.
I will just have to wear a beret. (just kidding)

One thing I know.

I know you love me by the time you touched my nose and asked me if I
wanted to come with you to the hardware store.
You didn't hug me or cuddle me or tell me that there's plenty of fish
in the sea. You didn't tell me about The Master Plan or time heals all
wounds.
You just touched the tip of my nose though it might have been snotty with tears.
And we went to Home Depot. I wanted to hold your hand like how I used
to at funerals. Squeezing so tight.

So you don't have to say it.
I just know.
And thanks.

Some little thoughts that cycle through my head.

- Hope has got nothing to do with it.
- Whatever. It was cute and funny. We would have had a nice time.
- Boysclub.
- Gravlax gravlax gravlax.
- It's better to be good than it is to be right.
- Picking up your signals, but you're still on the wrong channel.

These have nothing to do with each other. They just pop in there when
I walk the streets or clean my dishes.