Journey to the Homestead

We call our truck Mister Hanky. It's our motel room on wheels. In a brown truck with a white shell, we glide through the hamlets in hick country, watchful law enforcement smiling and waving. A tiny "namaste" sticker in the back window is the only indication we are not rednecks.

Our destination:
the remote area on the south slope of the Uintah Mountain Range.

On Monday, we walked on a frozen creek, listening intently for cracks as water rushed inches beneath our feet.

Life, suspended.

Applied geometry.

I knew I couldn't capture it, the way the water burst through the ice. But I snapped the shot anyway, hoping that seeing the futile attempt to freeze the moment, the experience would flood me - buzz of water on rock and ice, stinging cheeks and nose, juniper tang.

House in the hills.

The dogs are in heaven on the homestead. Yes, Cassie wears sweaters because she gets cold doing what she loves. Thanks to K's work on her wardrobe, she's the best dressed hiking dog I've ever met. Lucky little bitch.

Have I mentioned yet that Cassie the Shih Tzu-Eskimo humps Aki the Rotty-Blue Heeler? She really goes to town, jackhammering away on his hip, his back, his head. He must like it. He gave her a post-hump cuddle.

"Erotophobia"

I first saw the term "erotophobia" in this article. The depoliticization of sexual speech is baffling to me, but I've said that before.

An example even beyond erotophobia. Body-phobia, I guess:
Last night I was wandering around and came across a statue of a pro basketball player from my city's team. Although there was amazing detail in his leg muscles, the toes gripping through the shoe, the fold in his sock, his facial features and expression, the way his fingers were tensed, engaging the ball - despite all this, there were no genitals on the statue. No bulge through his shorts. No bump where a jockstrap would be. I wasn't expecting definition or anything necessarily erotic, but the utter lack of a physical indication of genitalia is absurd.

Balmy Winter Days

The first day of winter where I live is warmer than it's been for weeks. Or so it seems. I'm not checking the numbers, just going off my perception.

Solstice was yesterday and celebrating that day feels intensely satisfying. I feel very human, recognizing that for thousands and thousands of years, humans have acknowledged and celebrated the rebirth of light. And now the rest of the holiday season, all the obligations and events, they just . . . happen. I participate, I play whatever role I've agreed to play that year, I give gifts, I open gifts, I drive around a lot, pose for pictures, avoid picture-taking, smile, chit-chat, blah blah. And it's easy. Because I've already celebrated the most important holyday for me. And that makes for a consistently low-stress holiday time.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Animalistic Reactions

Our friend M gave K a big bag of clothes that was destined for the thrift store if K didn't want them. It's always fun going through a secondhand bag of clothes. It's fascinating what one can learn about someone by looking at their castoffs. I'm unsure where M acquired one particular item.

In this bag K found a real lamb jacket.
It felt weird. Really weird. Very soft and a lot like our dog Cassie's fur.

The dogs were horrified. If you dont' remember what the dogs look like, here's Cassie and here's Aki. Unfortunately, I don't have a photo of them looking horrified. But they both slowly backed away from K and wouldn't look at her. They were clearly disgusted.

However. Animal reactions to the hide of another dead animal being brought into the household are not uniform.
Buddy, our sadly obese orange tabby cat (seen above all junked out on catnip and a good five pounds lighter than he is now), just about came all over himself with excitement. Okay, not really. He's fixed and doesn't do that anymore. But he was very excited. He snuggled right up into the lamb jacket and took a nice long nap.

If you ask me, that's pretty f*cking confident of him. Who's to say he wouldn't be next? After all, he has very soft fur. It would make a really warm little bustier for those chilly winter nights. But Buddy knows he's got us wrapped around his fat little paw. He's too good of a snuggler and too warm of a heating pad. Damn him.

Some Kind of Memory Thing

So I don't really read very many blogs. In fact, the only one I read with any kind of (obsessive) regularity is Trista's. She had this thing that I actually did, and as a good little sheep I'm following the directions (When you're finished, post this paragraph on your blog . . . )

These were the instructions I followed:

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME.

It can be anything you want--good or bad--BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

End quote.

See, that's just silly of me. Nobody reads this thing. I feel actually quite confident in that statement. Or are there ways of eluding a sitemeter? Not that it matters. It's actually kind of cool to have a place that is for me and the few lone souls who find this place.

Liberation is something definitely in short supply lately.

Daily Zen

The fundamental delusion of reality is to suppose that I am here and you are out there. --Yasutani