A Random Image

Archive for March, 2007

|| March 23, 2007 || 9:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

um, erm, ahhhh….

Sometimes I am too tuckered out from my adventures to even blog voyeurnal them.

You people make up fantasy scenarios amongst yourselves. I’m on my way out the door again and maybe I’ll be able to sort some thinks out sometime tomorrow. Then, you know, transcribe them from my brain through my fingertips and onto your warm little glowy screens.


|| March 20, 2007 || 3:56 pm || Comments (5) ||

“Don’t be silly, Mister Man.”

Maxim doesn’t often get all yelly with me. One thing that sticks in his craw, though, is my propensity for picking up the random hitchiker here and there. That one trick makes him go a big shouty every time.

Yesterday I saw a woman about my age walking along the highway. She was missing her left arm at the shoulder. Highway 431 is notoriously busy and populated with mind-numbingly poor drivers. Seeing a pedestrian at the shoulder –not to mention a one-armed, female one– made me nervous as all-fuck, so I pulled over and ended up giving her a ride a mile or two down the road. Dropped her off, got thanked, that was that.

Word of this, of course, got back to Maxim and he loudly upbraided me in the confines of our bedroom last night.


JETT: Come onnnn, Maxim. That was as about as safe a hitchiker scenario as there ever was.


JETT: Well, I’m possessed of totally good instincts. Really.


JETT: Maxim! The woman had one arm and weighed a hunnert and twenty pounds. If I let her get the best of me, I totally deserve a killing.

I stood there and blinked at him a couple of times. He totally went off, then.

|| March 17, 2007 || 10:40 pm || Comments (1) ||

I mean, REALLY.

The internet should not be abused this way.

I got a text from m’man Skillzy earlier. Apparently he is having a fiiiiine time. He had a little difficulty with the spelling of “AHPYY SANIT PECTRICKS ADY!”

Gimme an X! Gimme another X! Multiply that times three! GO TEAM!

If you are, say, the kind of person that did not choose to associate with females as you were growing up because they seemed to you to be just so damned difficult, then raising daughters might prove to be somewhat a challenge when you are a certified grownelly-up.

This morning the most emotionally unruly daughter was at her sweetest and kindest and most helpful while the other two were having their own versions (“Lili! Put. The pants. On. Now.”) of defiant (“Scout, if is so dang hard for you to be productive while being so fashion-conscious, then I can solve the problem for you by confiscating those heels and setting! Them! Onnfiiirrrrrre.” Poor Scout. Lili got to me first and stole all my patience clean away.) meltdowns.

One day, I aim to figure out how to be a pro at this whole ‘mother’ gig. For now, I am going to go have a Lush bath. And maybe swear copiously in an ‘outside voice’. The bathroom has these really great, really satisfying acoustics.

There is this place up the road a ways, tucked back among the winding rural roads that you find all over this place if you drive even a mere five minutes out of the town proper. I found it quite by accident one day, and may not have even seen it had I not been looking for someplace else so very hard.

It’s a smallish farm seated in the midst of rolly fields; it boasts a nice brick house and a sweet little manicured lawn. There is a sizable garden off to the left of the house and behind that garden there are two silos, an oldish sort of tractor and a big, open red barn. Above the barn’s large doors there are carefully-cut and -hung letters that spell out ‘Someday Farm’.

The first time I saw this vista, I sat and stared across it for a good fifteen minutes, breath coming in slow, peaceful draws: Diaphragm out, beat, diaphragm collapse, beat, inhale carefully once more. It was that moment precisely before twilight on a summer’s eve where everything has a magical clarity, the heat of the day drawing slowly back and the no-see-ums dancing in the space between your eyes and what lies beyond.

Someday Farm, how simple and brilliant and amazing a thing to title such a pristine and wonderful little setup. Someday Farm. It just sounds so full and fetching. The promise of a pretty girl’s kiss. The roll of cash settled neatly in a breast pocket. Home-churned ice cream on a Sunday afternoon. A game of cards with your Very Bests on a Saturday night. Creek-swimming on a long and lazy day.

Every now and again, especially back in those days of Emotionally Tenuous Hanging-On, I’d take a beer or a peach NeHi out there and sit across the way from Someday Farm, staring or scribbling and almost always dreaming want-drenched things. It became one of my favorite places in This Most Hellishly Unholy Of All The Places I Mostly Despise.

My friend Geno drove in from Waseca, Minnesota one whirlwind day in the early fall, late nineties. I’d called him two days previous: “Okay, Geno, it’s time. I need you here. Will you come stay a while?” No sooner than I had pushed out the words he was packing his bags and filling out leave papers. Before I knew it, he was squeezing the life out of me with his machinist’s arms and digging a pit in the sand at the beach for a cookout. He’d been patient, waiting for that call he knew in his innermost being I would one day certainly make. Smart man, my dear friend Geno. He knew my insides when even I had no idea what had become of them.

We laughed and played and sat silently together for days upon days until one morning he woke, wandered into my room rubbing his bare belly, and said, “Today I’d like you to show me some Sacred Places.” I knew just what he meant. I took him up to the old Red Mill atop Short Creek, I took him to the broad plank covered bridge outside of Oneonta and to Someday Farm. Someday Farm was last, and before I could even open my mouth to share my feelings on the place with him, he covered me in his delight and wonder; the things he expressed were near-exactly what I felt and I could only stand there, stupid-grinning and pleased beyond any explanation whatsoever. Geno pulled out his camera and began shooting pictures of me, the farm, me and the farm there in the blazing and gorgeous sunset.

He left two days later, his grandaddy’s vintage map absent-mindedly abandoned on top of my chest of drawers. Poking a slight bit of fun, I’d remarked on the age and seeming unreliability of the thing when he’d first arrived. “The plainest roads, Jett, they don’t really ever change much.” Geno’d carried that map for so many years and I couldn’t help think that it was no accident that it had gotten left in my care at a time in my life when there seemed to be no recognizable landmarks to speak of.

He called me along the route, voice tinny in my answering machine, marking each locale of every ass-dragged stop along the way. When he finally got back home, he didn’t call me at work as planned, but instead left an extremely lengthy and emotionally loaded message on the tape of that same machine. When he got back into his truck for the long and silent drive home, he said, “…all I could think about, JettGirl, was what a lonely place my life is when you are not laughing into it, shaking the room with that thing you have, making me feel so fucking proud that I get the privilege of saying to the world, ‘I have a piece of that girl and it will be mine forever and no one can take it from me.’” I remember leaning my head into the wall when I heard that, the dark shapes of my kitchen growing even more fuzzy through the heat of freshly-pulled tears. I recall that moment because I had been without hope for about a year at that time, and hearing Geno say that thing to me, saying it in a manner that preserved it for posterity (or at least until the fucking tape wore slap out), slipped a little seed of hope back into the darkest recesses of me where it was nurtured by the little bit of faith that stubbornly clung to the underside of my ribs.

Some two weeks later he excitedly told me that he’d gotten around to developing his film and now a large print of Someday Farm, my shadow falling across one corner in the forefront of it, hung in his dining room where he could see it every evening. I geeked on the notion of my not being actually in the picture, but a hint of my presence –put forth in shadow and light– lingering there nonetheless.

“I like what the name of that farm represents,” Geno told me, “I can’t even explain to you what it means to me,” but I knew precisely what he was talking about. You see, I’m all-in for Somedays.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

“Well, that was easy.”


As It Should Be

The day we drove off the beaten path

Was random and precise

One more One-More to ponder

Another Something waiting for exploration:

“I scouted ahead for you.

“Monday goes okay.”

Would that they were all Mondays….

When you say ‘I know’

You mean

‘I do feel the same’

When I say ‘I know’

I mean

‘I fully realize that’

Such a disparity of language

teh hearts have teh meanings of teh words

because teh hearts hold teh experiences

(feel free to emote unless

there is someone specific in the room)

The day we drove off the beaten path

Was random and precise

“Be careless,” I told you

And you were that.

I don’t have the numbers to count

Lo these many times

But –there to here– it makes sense

I was watching the New York Dolls on the teevee-thing.

I call it ‘the teevee-thing’ because it is brand new and so special that when it came here to reside in our home it merited its very own new console and multi-deeveedee-playing-surround-sound boxes and geegaws. It’s like an electronic frankenstein or some shit. Only, frankenstein wasn’t sleek and sexy. The new teevee-thing most assuredly is. I know this is true because the girls stay huddled around it in the living room now; I used to have to coax them out of their teenager hovels with various trickeries and bribes.

MAXIM: hm.

JETT: what.

MAXIM: these guys.

JETT: ‘these guys’? ‘these guys’?? you don’t know who the new york dolls are?

MAXIM: ehhhm, uh-uh.

JETT: you are killing my plaid little heart. okay. you know who buster poindexter is, right?

MAXIM: yeah. *pause* ohhhh, i knew the lead singer looked familiar! wait, is that his hair or is he wearing a wig?

JETT: *chewing on lip*

JETT: *chewing on lip hard*

MAXIM: that’s buster poindexter? didn’t he make some really stupid music during the eighties?

JETT: shut up, shut up, i can’t take it anymooooore!

|| March 12, 2007 || 11:11 am || Comments (0) ||


Tess just proclaimed the word rueda ‘not fun’.

Also, she would like you all to know that I have set her up a Gmail account and now she may GoogleTalk to her heart’s content. You see, she has more time to dick around communicate with her fellow man while she is here at work than I do.

When asked what I should tell you folk as a lure to add her to your contact list(s), she said, “Tell them that I am a fun! girl!. They also need to know that I can sing the ‘Mister Bucket’ jingle in its entirety, all en espanol.” I ask you, HOW COULD YOU NOT WANT HER AS YOUR PAL??

Shovelthumbs. At, you know, Geemails dot coms.