Dayhike to Lake Ethel, between Stevens Pass and Leavenworth.
Let's go up to that pass with the larches, okay? We'll cut up the hill and hit the trail somewhere...
Whoops. Wrong pass. The trail's a half mile over this way, somewhere...
Oh, look! Miniscule hail!
I skipped a chapter! I've already written Green Desert up to chapter 4.5, but when I went to post the next one in order today, I discoverd that I didn't write chapter 1.5. I just skipped right to chapter 2.1. I didn't even write the last page of 1.4! For shame, for shame!
I have a pattern I must keep. Must.
If the toilet looks like it might be clogged, get the plunger and use it. Do not--I repeat, do *not*--flush again.
The office is just about empty.
"Nobody's here," says a coworker. "I'm fixing to not be here."
And since here I am online instead of working, I'm not here either. I don't think I forgot anything work-related this week. But there's always that little nagging in the back of my head. Too many projects to comfortably keep track of.
“Fucking Zhéporé-spawn cock-sucking shitface bastard.” He broke my wrist. He fucking shot my wrist apart! Fire raced all over my body and I couldn’t even feel my left hand.
The bastard just stood there, holding his Pétíso-damned rifle on me. He shouted, “Leave the car!”
I still had the cop’s gun. I slowly grabbed it. I needed a distraction or else I’d be dead. Lights in the mirror––another fucking cop. How the hell had we gotten through the portal all right only to be caught by these shitkickers? The rifle didn’t waver from my forehead. The cruiser skidded to a stop in front of the blue pickup, blocking the driveway sideways. My right hand slipped to the gearshift, popped it into reverse. I hit the gas.
The rifle bastard didn’t shoot. The cop didn’t get out of his car. I aimed the back bumper right at his door, fifty meters away. To either side of the driveway was nothing but ugly bushes and rocks that just might stop my car.
The cop car lurched forwards and slammed into the pickup. Twenty meters between us, he found reverse. Suddenly my own old brown car sat in my path. I stomped the brakes, skidding and sliding and spinning on the gravel. My tires suddenly squealed on asphalt and I jerked to a halt. Empty road ahead of me.
The back window shattered. I found drive and floored it––kickass acceleration slamming me back against the seat and holding me tight.
The grass may look greener over there, but really it's not. That's just an optical illusion.
Look around you. Do you have it good? A steady job that supports you and generally keeps you interested? Don't throw it away. I mean, sure, it ain't all beer and skittles, but they wouldn't call it work if it was fun.
Me? I've got a good thing going with the whole being-an-architect, so I shouldn't abandon that to try to become an author or a photographer. Those professions are finicky and hard. And since I didn't have to struggle to get where I am now, why should I struggle on the chance that maybe I might get a few bucks (certainly not enough to support myself) by selling my writing or my photos? It just doesn't make any sense to do that.
So get back to work.
Jamais.
Maybe if I keep repeating it to myself, it will be true.
Δεν βρέχει ποτέ στο Σιάτλ.
Non piove mai a Seattle.
Es regnet nie in Seattle.
I seem to be fixated on the weather. I was having such a lovely time hiking this summer, and now no more. I only got one good mountain-lake swim. . .
Y'all feel free to leave comments, okay? (-: No shame in being first. . .
Happy Yortè, everybody. Autumn is upon us, soon to be winter. It's time to think about death. Honor your deceased ancestors. Contemplate the lives of those who have departed us in the past year. Try to focus on the good, the happy. But this is Yortè, so you know everybody's going to be a maudlin drunk tonight. Cheers.
I decided to post a few of my photos on eBay, see if they sell. I priced them at half of what I think they’re worth, but that’s still more than what most photographers are listing for 8x10s. Mine are just better, anyway.
Shi Shi Beach, Washington:
Meteora, Greece:
Klapatche Park, Washington:
Dubrovnik, Croatia:
The auctions last a week. After that, I'll post different photos.
Friends and family need not purchase. . . Well, I suppose you could. But that'd be kinda silly. I mean, I'd gladly give you a print. In a frame, too. . . . Hmm. Maybe this offer should only apply to family. Better yet, just immediate family. (-;
I herded Vata back inside, away from the drawn gun that wouldn’t stay unfired much longer. I slammed the door behind me and hurried around Vata for the phone in the kitchen. Vata shuffled after me.
A gunshot cracked. I grabbed the phone off the wall, hit the sheriff button Vata preset five years ago and we hadn’t used since. It worked. “Sheriff’s,” a woman said.
“There’s been a shooting. The highway patrol’s here already, but they’re in the middle of it. It’s all in my driveway. A crazy foreign kid with a rifle.”
I paused and she cut in. “What is your name and address?”
“Pí‘oro Kılímı, 5430 East Crater Road. Hurry! Before he kills someone.”
Silence. “Um. . . We have a car there already.”
What? How did I mistake a sheriff’s car for a highway patrol? They’re not even the same color. I lowered the phone.
Vata started walking towards the back door, across the kitchen. What was she doing? The animals?
A muffled voice from my hand. “Sir?”
Out front, a car crash. “Sir?”
I raised the phone. “I think your deputy has gotten in an accident.” No one else was driving. I had an urge to go to the front door again, but I collapsed in the nearest chair, dropping the phone.
Vata pushed open the screen door and called softly, “Come inside, dear.”
I was too old and too tired for this craziness, that was for damn sure.
I ran hunched over, expecting Zhíno’s bullet in my back. The house’s floodlights cast harsh shadows through the patchy brush and cactuses. I could only see the uneven ground in bits and pieces. I stepped high in the black parts, hoping to miss big rocks like I could see in the light bits.
A shot. I tensed. It missed. I tripped.
The ground whammed into me. I couldn’t breathe. A knife in my temple. Alarms in my ears. I rolled over, trying to gasp. Nothing worked. I was going to die. I could tell I was passing out. Lack of oxygen. My eyesight grew dim. Only a few stars left.
Air! My lungs suddenly worked. I gulped in deep breaths of the delicious, cold air. Big lungfuls.
I looked down at myself. Dirt––gray in the low light––covered my bare chest and stomach. Dark cuts on my ribs flowed thick down my sides. Knees fine––jeans. Elbows even worse than my ribs, dirty flaps of bloody skin. I cringed and brushed some loose hairs from my face. My face was sticky. My hand covered in blood, dark and shiny. . . I think I did pass out then.
Next thing I remember, I was scurrying around the back corner of the house, holding my sweatshirt tight to my forehead. I glanced behind me. The countryside flashed in green and red. More than one siren. I couldn’t see the driveway, but I heard tires spray gravel and then the heavy metal crunch of cars colliding.
What's with those Estonians? I write a post about Germany which peripherally mentions Estonia, and three people find the post via Technorati, searching for "Estonia." But when I actually write a post about Estonia, they don't read it.
Hm. . . maybe Estonians just want to read about Germany.
Well, at least there was only one person who found my blog by doing a search for "bare breasts" . . .
Sotosoroto Husband, author, architect, king-abdicate, etc. etc. etc. |
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California Roadtrip, Summer 2006
Light Rail Neighborhood Density
The World Does Not Agree with You
Failure Should Never Be Rewarded
Thoughts on Illegal Immigration
I'm a Native American, Dammit!
More "Global Warming" Skepticism
Giant Solar System Model along I-90
Restaurant at the End of the Universe Movie Idea
