i had a weird fantasie today, of starring in a movie in which there was a lot of righteous ass kicking done by, of course, me. i realized i am really over the moon for violence in movies when it is a scenario in which i agree with the need for fisticuffs and other weaponry. like kill bill, matrix (one, please. shudder to think of those last few), and fight club (duh). gunplay is boring though. mayhap i will make up a t-shirt that says "fists not guns". since everybody is so into wearing what they're into.

can it?

today i am obsessed with random events. forming a pattern somehow, in some mathematical model i can't begin to comprehend.

there is a big bin at the grocery store of green beans. i sort through, finding the unmottled and most robust, as seems to be the ritual as i have seen so many women (all women) do it before me. you do not just throw a handful of beans into a bag. you meticulously sort, finding the unmottled and most robust. i rip such a one from its paltry looking sisters and think as the bean must be thinking: goodbye, my quintuplet darlings, us born from the selfsame flower. i am destined for a different pot from you, if indeed you make it to one. looking as such, you may just end up in a wegman's rat's belly, or, back to your base molecules as some food for a future bean that looks as appealing as i.

there is a wall of eggs, each in its pastel green styro, blinding me in the decision making process. how can i possibly choose a carton containing eighteen perfectly fresh unbroken eggs showing no signs of the atrocities from which they came? do i select from the top, bottom, or middle? the 1st, 2nd, or 7th column? after all, each egg in any given carton is most likely from a different fowl. so many, at this time of year, are destined for a dye bath, and eventual garbage pile. how many easter eggs can 1 person eat. and children won't eat an egg when there is cadbury to be had. eight out of eighteen are now garish and beautiful, like a wife of 28 years who finally decides to go out on the town. the rest, who knows? the thousands of ones left on the shelf, who can know? the pans and trashes and bellies they will end up in.

and so, when i chose my numbers for tonite, to gloriously and forsakenly stake my claim in a gluttonous 105 mil, i simply let these randoms do their thing, and my vision blurred, and i chose only based on the spaces in between things that appear empty, but end up ending up somewhere no one can know and rarely imagine.

based on so much thought, i just know i'm gonna hit it. ha ha..........

holly, love the picture...
and your stories
(and i have been putting myself away in the ground for a long time. it feels bad.)



who else but us and the other few we know dream of, of all things, a *goat* farm?!? (and sheepies, of course, matthew).

springtime is for bathin em in the river.


sigh... oh will oh will it happen someday?