What’s Good for the Goose is Good for the Gosling; Rarely

wrong Gosling...

“the Man that will make such an execrable Pun as that in my Company, will pick my Pocket”
–John Dennis according to an epistle written by Benjamin Victor in 1722

2 a.m. came with the caterwauling of two geese. I’m guessing the noise was a result of a fight they were having with a Bremerton raccoon. The prize for said was their eggs. I’m certain they lost, the geese. This is the nature of a Bremerton raccoon, they are not long on loss. They fight pit-bulls and Rottweilers for trash-can scrap lunch, in fenced yards, like a backyard cage-match. And they win. And this morning, a Sunday morning, we are deep into spring. Being on the business-end of Memorial Day weekend, I imagine that this time of year marks the salad days for the Bremerton raccoon.

Brief Aside: I’m not comfortable with the spelling of the word: raccoon. And I have no idea how to spell: brief, without the crutch of spell-check. I didn’t realize this until the raccoon became an integral character in this story. I am 43 fucking years old. My Vest Pocket Dictionary, prepared by the folks at Webster, is of little help. It does contain the word: rabid which is not ironic but it does strike me as counter-intuitive for reasons of comedy. Brief-adjacent, let’s move on.

The caterwauling was desperate but also a bit resolved to the idea that the geese were on the losing end of a battle for the survival of their line. They only get one shot a year. And they generally nest in the same spot every year. They’re territorial that way. And the blackberry bushes along the shore of The Port Washington Narrows are not easily protected from hungry raccoons. The geese lose this fight more often than not.

Maybe these are all clues to the ignorance of anthropomorphizing the geese and their actions, or lack thereof. But it must feel terrible to be so helpless in protecting one’s young. I would be terrified.
And isn’t all great parenting predicated, nay, motivated by fear? No? Okay…

When I was young, I can’t pinpoint the age exactly, but I remember the place, I was abused by a caretaker. Using the term caretaker in this context is both ironic and counter-intuitive. I’m aware.

Aside: I’ve tried to write about this abuse before. Several times. This is the point where I always lock up. I have countless unfinished drafts of this story. They all conclude with the previous paragraph…

…26 minutes pass as I watch the cursor blink at me disapprovingly…my stomach hurts.

The abuse wasn’t at the hands of my parents nor were they to blame. But when the events came to light and the dust had settled, it felt like I was being blamed. If not blamed per-se, I was never assured by my folks that it was not my fault. My entire life I’ve owned a portion of the responsibility for that violation. I still hoard some of it…jealously…

But this morning, in the cries of two roughly evolved dinosaurs, I heard the fear of my parents. The fear that I possess as a parent. The anxiety that these things happen, that some things can only be prevented in hind-sight with a DeLorean. I heard the cries of generations as they digest the horror that some predators cannot be stopped, that some bells cannot be unrung, and some eggs cannot be uncracked. Indeed, in a cruel world where: “you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet” is a platitude, the cries of the geese were probably an annoyance to my neighbors as they were trying to convalesce from drinking heroic amounts of alcohol in celebration of remembering. But for me it was a moment of Zen. I was also recovering. My convalescing is quicker as I drink like a hero every day. A simple hangover was no match for my instant of clarity.

I am not protecting my kids reliably…

That was 2 a.m., it is now 5a.m. and the sun is up in earnest and people are moving. And I am tired. The kind of tired that sleep is powerless to remedy. I’m tired of struggle of survival of caretakers and geese and raccoons and eggs and omelets and kids and parents and cruelty and platitude. My fear is that rest is countless miles from where I sit. Miles not counted by my own weariness but by the blood and sweat that life requires of me, of us all. We got quotas to fill, kid…

But: for now…I’ll try…

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50 Shades of Hooray: Food Porn the Lowest Difficulty Setting in Photography

Flat Iron + Salt + Pepper = Math That I can Understand...

Flat Iron + Salt + Pepper = Math That I can Understand…

“your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.” –Anthony Bourdain Kitchen Confidential

One night I cooked a steak…it was perfect.  I loved that steak.  I made a Tumblr post about it.  Here is where the common person can find entrance.

A Broken the Hand is Worth Two in the Fist

"It's like making a tattoo, Daddy, but it's not." --Ruby

“It’s like making a tattoo, Daddy, but it’s not.” –Ruby

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.” –Kurt Vonnegut

I broke my hand recently.  It happened when stress and frustration joined forces with my fear of being found a fraud.  Together they conspired against the better angels of my nature to hobble me.  It is tough to type now.

I tried using voice recognition software as a means of dictation to build a MS Word document.  My computer barely survived the ordeal.

As a result, correspondence will be slowed in the near future.

Since breaking my hand I’ve noticed that, having heard the story, people fall into one of two categories: 1) Those who show empathy/sympathy for the frustration that I felt, and 2) Those who make the obvious remark that hitting a cabinet is a stupid choice.  I am ever fascinated by those who feel the need to state the obvious.  I am also fascinated by religious television programming.  Not that Pat Robertson states the obvious.  Rather, it is the lack of self-awareness–combined with the compulsion to force one’s voice, regardless how awkwardly, into any given situation–that bind the Pat Robertsons and the “Staters of the Obvious” in this world.

We’ve all but sold our house.  The projected closing date is December 30th.  We’ve been here before not here, per-se, but within eyesight; time will tell…she always do.

For some time I’ve wanted to do a blog with a long view on vision.  A blog that has a magazine-like philosophy of content.  The other day, while driving northbound on State Route 3 between Belfair and Sunnyslope, it came to me.  I realized the topic: DIY paint projects.  I decided that I want to do photo-shoots and interviews with anyone who has refurbished a car, wall, dresser, room, or anything else using their imagination–rather than cash–as the impetus of revelation.  I’ve already lined up my first interview.  The blog will be called: Rattle Candy…provided no one has already taken the name…

Was hitting the cabinet a stupid choice?  The answer is rendered moot if it fails to clearly present itself prior to hitting the cabinet.

I posted some pictures of a new obsession of mine: Stencil Graffiti, on my Tumblr…Check it out here