Look at us

After last night's depressing post I owe it to my readers, should I still have any, to say that this is a bounce-back day, and I feel somewhat better. We had a New Zealand leg of lamb roast for our Sunday dinner; my sweet neighbor and I dug up weeds and roots in the backyard, and I ended up having the kids (plus a friend) for the day, because their Mom got sick.

(The cost of this change in schedule was I lost ~25 points in my fantasy baseball league, but I won't bore you with the details, Julie P!)

The kids often have a friend or two over to my house on weekends, and I like that. You see, most of the time, I live more or less like a hermit, locked up inside my own mind, imaging things not likely to occur and repetitiously photographing practically everything within sight.

Think of it this way. At least if you come to visit me sometime (and all readers are invited to come by), you'll feel right at home, because you will have more or less seen everything there is to see here already.

Yesterday Dylan and his friend Mookie made some funny movie shorts on the digital movie camera Dylan's big sibs gave him in April for his birthday.

That photo of a little sticker, "Look at me," was slapped on my kitchen window (where all the colored bottles reside) by one of the kids years ago. I noticed it today for the first time in months. It's funny how even a hermit keeps rediscovering little clues here and there in his cave, clues that trigger the stories he needs to tell.

Before I get to that, however, I have to disclose an oddity: Lately, I've been buying small delicacies -- caviar, Japanese cucumbers, pâté, sugar snap peas, edamame, Stewart's sodas (lime and orange), baby kosher dills, pickling cucumbers, roasted garlic hummus, sweet batard, le pique-nique turkey sausages, and ginger slices candy.

I find it all goes well around the edges of my nightly frozen turkey meat pie, and artichoke, and fresh white sweet corn on the cob.

"Look at me." Isn't that the universal cry? People need to be seen. Our voices need to get outside of our heads. Our attempts, however simple, at art, music, humor, writing, sports, love, all need to be recognized by somebody.

Otherwise we shrivel and we die. I love the photo above of the flower, which two nights ago, appeared in this place hanging low, Sweet Chariot. A little water in the vase, come sun, and she (or perhaps I should say he)
has sprung back to life, erect, hopeful, looking for action.

All (s)he needed was a little attention, obviously.

Just like all the rest of us.

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