Thursday, March 22, 2007
break
Hey, faithful readers. I think I'm going to take a break from blogging for awhile. (To spend more time on other writing projects, hopefully.)
Thursday, March 15, 2007
My windows are open
... now, and I'd like to write about dogs. No so much of a rant, than a rave?
My neighbor's dogs bark a barbershop quartet. There's a bass New Foundland, a spaniel, a tenor Corgie-mix and a pug, assaulting every tinctature of my eardrum. Actually, I'm not sure if the pug barks. He just kind of stands around and shakes the hypothetical tambourine.
A neighbor boy, 11 or so, though, sometimes just happens to walk his monsterous Great Dane past the yard. The New Foundland raises his dusty bulk, bounds toward the chain-links and roars masterful rage. That boy is my hero. The commotion is magnificent.
The subdivision I grew up in in New Jersey wasn't an ... airtight, treeless, taupe newcomer-depository (like we have around here, sorry), but I don't think I've ever lived in a real neighborhood until now. I look out my front door and see family-dogs-on-leashes. Terriers and greyhounds. Baby strollers. Greyhounds peering adorably into baby strollers. Tattooed neighbors, carrying babies. All waving, as I read on the porch. Even the dogs. (Which is kind of a dumb ending, but I was going for poignant, with a dab of mystic mystery, and came up empty. Maybe I'll try one more time ... )
I know I'm living in the perfect place, when I look out my open window under a full moon, and see the Corgie, the pug, the New Foundland, the Great Dane, the greyhounds, and the babies all dancing, paw-in hand-in-paw, in a great grand circle.
My neighbor's dogs bark a barbershop quartet. There's a bass New Foundland, a spaniel, a tenor Corgie-mix and a pug, assaulting every tinctature of my eardrum. Actually, I'm not sure if the pug barks. He just kind of stands around and shakes the hypothetical tambourine.
A neighbor boy, 11 or so, though, sometimes just happens to walk his monsterous Great Dane past the yard. The New Foundland raises his dusty bulk, bounds toward the chain-links and roars masterful rage. That boy is my hero. The commotion is magnificent.
The subdivision I grew up in in New Jersey wasn't an ... airtight, treeless, taupe newcomer-depository (like we have around here, sorry), but I don't think I've ever lived in a real neighborhood until now. I look out my front door and see family-dogs-on-leashes. Terriers and greyhounds. Baby strollers. Greyhounds peering adorably into baby strollers. Tattooed neighbors, carrying babies. All waving, as I read on the porch. Even the dogs. (Which is kind of a dumb ending, but I was going for poignant, with a dab of mystic mystery, and came up empty. Maybe I'll try one more time ... )
I know I'm living in the perfect place, when I look out my open window under a full moon, and see the Corgie, the pug, the New Foundland, the Great Dane, the greyhounds, and the babies all dancing, paw-in hand-in-paw, in a great grand circle.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
bright salt
Woke up at @ 2:30 a.m., thinking that what I wrote wasn't expressed in the right spirit. (Confirmed by the intro to Colossians in The Message, which I just happened to be on this morning!)
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