annuity

the corn is in the kitchen and the hogs are in the barn

I have exactly 120 minutes left of school this term; and some four odd weeks until student loans flush my bank account. This spring break is one of long walks. I will take long walks to avoid the rising cost of gasoline, to deter boredom, and to improve my overall health and well-being.

I will not take walks to look at flowers or houses or sunrises— aesthetics are for people with leisure time. Observing the warming earth and the budding spring is not for a proleterian such as myself. Oh damn, I'm unemployed. I guess that means I am eligable to enjoy the present moment.

walls

i am so tired that my car looks like home

I get to this point when there are eight days left in the term and my mind quits. I string words together and listen as the coherent argument transforms into scripted jargon. This is an ongoing problem in my life. However, it is tiresome.

On a much brighter note, I swam so fast today that fish were jealous. I swim a fair bit— the rhythm of my three beat stroke the closest I come to meditation. The water parts for me, and if I don't fight it, I can jam. There have been days when the pool is an endless hell; my mind is satan who laughs as water splashes up my nose. Oh, I know satan. That shit talker who tells me to get out of the pool 18 laps into a mile; that bastard talks so much, I almost listen. But then where would I be? huddled in the shower sniveling like a quiter. I cowgirl up instead, and finish another 18 laps.

Other days it is effortless. Which is why I keep swimming. The days when my mind has accepted that for thirty minutes I am going to work like mad, and then have a sandwich. There are days when I try to whistle underwater. It doesn't work, but I still try. It is bliss, the water is cool and I pretend I am a mermaid (I whistle a little tune). Or, I pretend that I am a boat or an octopus. I doubt that I will see anyone about my overactive imagination. Instead, I will get a pet turtle.

ash

In which I am forced to reckon with more death

I am 26 and 11/12ths and death follows me. Not in a negative there is a shroud on my life sort of way— but a nice kind of everything I have ever loved I have lost, kind of way. Idesia, the horse I been riding for the last year, died on sunday.

So to the rest of you living breathing friends, please care for yourselves

three jazz standards and a nickle's worth of blues

For all of you who have ever needed an aspirin and had to ask a stranger

Driving down the highway at a brisk and legal 60 MPH, I noticed my temperature gauge creeping up uncomfortably fast. I had replaced my radiator in September: are radiators something like oil-changes which need to be changed quarterly?

I got to the barn and watched steam rise from under the hood. This was going from bad to worse; so I got my horse and ate an apple. Idesia is smarter than me and she told me that ignoring a wound only leads to scarring. I put her away and opened the hood. There are a lot of tubes and gears and wires under there. As a sophomore in High School I had wanted to take auto-mechanics. But my mother forbade me on the grounds that it was "dirty". Her socioeconomic gender limiting reaction led me to take a welding class; I have the innate skills of a seven-year old when it comes to the mystical workings of my car's secret operations. I digress, I am an adult and no longer blame my mother for everything.

On the left side of the engine there is bucket that is supposed to be filled with radiator fluid. I pop the top and it was as empty as an anorexic on prom night. Filling the reservoir with water, I decide to fake like I have radiator fluid all the home. Two miles out, my Taurus Wagon was blowing steam and with the needle creeping up into the red, I stop. The fluid had all but evaporated, again.

Taking my water bottles, I head to the Exxon bathroom. I am in gym pants and not feeling so hot, what with grease on my dirty hands. I fill the chamber and start the motor. I spot the culprit; it's a busted hose. I am elated to have diagnosed the malaise. The prognosis is grim as I don't have a degree from the MacGyver institute— in which case it wouldn't matter that I'm 25 miles from home with out a screwdriver. I chew my lip.

A guy drives up in a red mustang (no, really) and asks if I need help. I am not a feinting maiden. I know my odds. I accept his offer of a tool set. The hose has a dime sized hole an inch from the motor. He drives me to a Napa and they give us a piece of rubber tubing the length of my hand. Attaching the hose took two minutes. After thanking the generous stranger, I was on my way.

Yes, this real life adventure shows my skills of looking under the hood and spotting trouble. More, I am notorious for letting problems simmer until there is an explosion. But not this time.