A Tale So Possible It's True

I have been melancholy of late. In an effort of affect my blues, I'd like to speak today of something close to my heart. wine.

Yes, wine. It may surprise you, but my familiarity with the beverage dates to my earliest adventures. I am credited with saving an entire year's vintage from ruination as a youth. In actuality, it was my prodigious steed who saved that year's wine. she was a beautiful creature. the color of ash and spotted snow-white, like the granite topped mountains of New England. She was just old enough to saddle and I was just aged enough to ride. It was a sparkling spring in the American colonies. Talk of taxes and governance pursed everyone's lips. But not us. Concord and I rode blissfully up and down mountainous passes, too youth too care for politics, too naive to think about rebellion.  Mr. Delacroix, to whom I was employed, a rotund man cheerfully mustachioed was the premier viner of New France (I'm told, today it's called Vermont). 

A brawny voice boomed over the rows of vines, "Foutre! The day, she is beautiful! Abruti, boy where are you?" Mr. Delcrioux's English warbled heavily with french slurs, "Le vin, we must check the wine!" 

I, as I was most often at dawn, was in the barn collecting eggs from the chickens when I heard  Delacroix shouts. I saddled Concord and, with the eggs in hand rode to meet him near the cellar. 

"He's always like this in the spring." I reasurred Concord as I dismounted.

The viner wobbled about the the cellar with a taster of tokay in one hand and a sloshing glass of his prized chardonnay in the other. his night gown swirled about his short legs. I tiptoed down the cold, stone stairs. He whirled about and i gave a starteld cry. Delacroix's excited face was wreathed in an wild corna of thick, black hair. The egg basket tumbled from my hands.

"Merde boy! don't frighten a man like that!" he cried, "le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage! eggs in the cellar? to the house with you." Delacroix sipped the tokay. "you have that horse of yours with?" he smiled. "hurry, quick for some breakfest, I have an important task for you, mon grand."

I found Delacroix on the porch after a quick meal of croissant and preserve. Delacriox sent me on errand to Newport. I was to find a group of exotic traders and give them a sealed letter and directions to the farm. giddily, we set our sights to Newport.

The trip to was hardly adventureous. But to an eager lad and best freind in hoof, it was a trail forged beyond tale. I spun tall fables and epic poems of my heroic consqest through the hills of New France. the bards would caterwaul my deeds was they did for ledgends past. 'Lo!' they would sing 'hear now the tale of the boy- no the man -  who carried the message for Delacroix Vinery!' High above, my daydreams soars in a cloudless sky. Beneath bows spurting youthful leafs Concord's trot drew a hyonotic beat. The midday sun painted green the rocky path.

We reached Newport late in the day without incident. The tavern was easy to find, it's lanterns already lit in the reddening light of dust. 

...

"to die, to sleep, perchance to dream"


Hamlet stayed his hand.
I did not.
so quick. so terrifyingly quick.
cold, tired, then numb, then nothing.
a finite gasp of in a finite world filled with finite things so unchangible
drifted away in a final thought
I know not what. like a birthday wish, it shall never shared. 

I have a pet rat. Her name is Panchu. She is ill and will probably not recover. It may seem strange to many people, that one might care for a rat but to me, she means the world. I have watched her aged this year. slowly, running less and less. Age is a bitter thing, it seems. Her bright eyes still look up with curiousity, anger to the cats, joy to me. Her wheel turns less and less each night. A mornful creeking reminder of the finite nature of all. now silent. Today was bath day. Panchu is a clean rat. she can wash herself normally, but sometimes it's nice to be held, to be scrubbed, to smell new, to be reminded of love - of what being cared for feels like.
  Bath day. I am reminded of certain  death and burial rituals that include washing the fallen.
She is so small. So wightless. so weak. I run a sink. warm. I submerge my fingers and comb her fine fur. She doesn't mind. even holds my index  for a moment. Panchu never had great love for being in water, though she can swim (fast, too usaully to the nearest escape.).  In my hands she touches the warmth. I am prepared for her to rush up my arm. with careful touch, I rub baby shampoo into her brilliant, white coat. She seems weary - a melancholy we share. Johnson and Johnson lathers nicely.  Two halloweens ago she clamored with engery. barely staying still long enough for a lather - let alone a second rinse.
  So tired.
I dried her without complaint. Once she would've pruned her fur untill it shined and immaculately white. Always running the dirtied paws over her ash coloured ears. I am told the colour difference on her head is common in hooded rats. There is nothing common about Panchu. Born with fur like snow, she loved to explore. Before we lived in Ames we lived in a place called Petsel pl apt 2. each morning she'd orchestrate a new escape from her cage. One such morning she found a a box full curious things. It was a box where I'd put some art supplies. Most charcoal and craypas. Naturally, she wondered inside where her paws became so soiled and dyed with dark inks and dust that when she cleaned them it stained her white head black.
  Outside dry, red leafs fall.

almost October.
crispy, fallen leafs
bright yellow and brown
Hugged warm in red fleese
jackets and blue sky
cluttered sidewalks
fill with harvest
spirits lift high in
glasses and song
the whisking wind stirs
empty branches stab
nights, wild, cold, and sweet 
a dusting of frost
reminds us again
almost October

I am watching brilliant SyFy channel Alice and Wonderland remake, Alice.

Because I cannot think of any else to scribe, in the next hour I shall transcribe my life.

Watching Alice. It is a SyFy original series remake of Alice and Wonderland by Lewis Carrol.
It is delightful.
I am sitting, legs crossed on the couch. A computer rests on the knees of Ruby. She watches intensely. Alice creeps about a low-light room. She looking for someone. op. It's a dreamsequence; she awakes to find herself in a forest.
Ruby is beautiful when she's concentrating.

Twitter
Faecbook!
Threadless.
new deals, I have 35$ in gift moneyes. Aw, they still don't have any new tees I love. however, this is interesting...
I ask Ruby if we she join the Tee-of the Month club from Threadless.
I think she agrees.
The cats slumber. Pepper stops by.  she is a shadow, silently sleek she drips through the house

-scene missing-

I awake. the coffee-rug hugs me. it is soft in the darkness. not as soft as bed and sheet. I attempt to lift ruby.
Slumber sapped strength... Instead rouse her with a kiss.
To Bed
to bed.

Cross Roads

1:38am sep 16 2010

Why keep a Blog?

I suppose I do it to maintain a frail connection to writing. To language. I loved language and literature. I enjoy analytical reading and discussing symbols and themes. writing too.

What happened?

I graduated. Nobody was interested in literary critiques or theory. I saw no jobs at the BA level -none, that is, that tailored to my interest. proof readers. I'm terrible at detail work. editing/publishing. I wanted something more academic. Teaching. I discovered that no place wanted some one with four-years of interdisiplary study with out teaching accreditation.

Why not freewrite? journalism, or fictional work?

Attempts at creative writing were abysmal. I found too quickly that I had no subject for which I had passion. perhaps I'm too high-minded, but I could not bring my self to write articles about thing for which I did not care. As it turns out, I am a stubborn wordcrafter too. I could start. But I never allowed myself to generate enough material to work with before I tried to revise it. Ultimately, I became discouraged. I convinced my self I was a terrible writer - a self-fulling prophecy compounded by my refusal to practice or even seek out side inspiration.

Is that why you returned to College?

I guess. I felt, after two years floundering and living off my parents' money, that i was most productive in the influence of an academic setting.

Did you want get a Masters in English?

yes, no. I wasn't sure what focus - what drive I had to justify further education. I didn't want to fall into the trap of continuing schooling for the lack of an other interest. I wanted to want to be in school.*shrugs* Truth is, I didn't try. I submitted one application -late- to University of Iowa. but mostly I was scared. scared to try. just like with my writings i was scared to put all that emotional effort - a significant portion of my being- to the judgment of the masses. My own fragile ego and insufficient self-esteem predicted my doom, my failure. In part, failure to find a job translated into failure to be accepted. So I took an easy way.
Another degree?
yes. I reenrolled as an undergraduate. at a school known for it's exceedingly low expectations. (but you didn't hear that from me).

You said you were scared. Is that the reason you choose Iowa State University?

No. By now I feel much more confident I my abilities. Actually, I found myself living in Ames because I was living with my love, Ruby. It was too late to apply for a postgrad position, you see. Nor did I find the opportunities at ISU that compelling.  Further, Ruby keeps talking about moving to Germany. I figured I could stay in Iowa for a year (two at most) and while I look for a nice Masters program, I could brush up the ol' GPA. and, hey, why not explore some other interests while I'm at it?

And how do you feel now?

Red, Red Wine

Stay close to me
I am fine.
Lemme clear my my mind.

communication
difficult.
Like a kitten in a box

I find it hard to get out