In Love

"To all men, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love."

So this excerpt comes from an e-mail from a friend from the Philippines. Prior to that it is part of a farewell letter that the man Gabriel García Márquez wrote to his friends after being diagnosed

To read more from and about Señor Márquez check out http://www.themodernword.com/gabo/gabo_faq.html

Falling in love daily will be a good start.

Caf-Lib(tm) Puddles

I have a contained puddle of this roasted chicory and grain beverage in my hand. The other hand is dancing around, hunt-and-peck. It's fixin to turn warm today, but so far it's still cool enough to crave a hot mug of something.
Lightning storm last night.
It was after those great summer thundershowers in the days of being five, that gravity played at finger-painting on the landscape, its medium water.
Who knows who coined the term, but one particular low area of lawn next to a road was dubbed "The Caf-Lib Puddle"
As far as the plastic toy boats and i were concerned, this was THE puddle of all puddles. There was a time when it was deep enough to reach my waist, i think, toes curling into inundated sod.
The glorious wet was warm and turbid, dark and creamy.
!!!And i just reserved a flight to Darkest Ecuador!!!

Touching

...my chin with the fingertips of one hand, i pull it away from them, back toward the corner of the room behind me.
Now your turn.
In Tai Chi we were instructed to do this to align our neck vertebrae.
As soon as i had followed this tip, i noticed i had not actually done it as our Master had said it. What i had done was consistent with an approach to life that has not served me satisfactorily; instead of pulling my chin back, the fingers of the right hand had pushed it back. Small distinction, yes, but a vastly different philosophy is at work when i do it as told, using the lightest touch as a mere communication tool and allowing the creeping cranium to correct itself.
Trained as a massage therapist, i often notice shoulder tension directly related to this ubiquitous postural imbalance.
Sitting in a reclined position in front of a TV or in a car is one common source. Another is the computer slouch. My pet peeve is the schoolbag, which exacerbates (in a lopsided fashion) the already chin-forward stance seen among adolescents and other stressed people.

So if you notice your neck hurting, ask it gently to set the tone for the rest of the spine. Tell me if this works for you. While you're at it you might as well turn off your computer, donate to the Red Cross, and trade your SUV for a hydrogen-powered Jetsons mobile. Oh, and pray for peas and hominy all over the world.

Unspeakable!

Words.
Am i weird, or is it not so unusual? My sister (not the one in China; i have a plethora) points out in a discussion over lunch that in fact there are many words like 'sepulchral'.
In what way, you ask?
Well, put it this way. Have you Ever heard anyone say "...sepulchral..."? Sure, it is used in written language- but spoken?
And no, it does not stem from a fear of mummies, zombies, or other incarnations of death. Frankly, when i see that word, i'm scared of sounding silly even if i pronounce it 'properly'.
Likewise, i was appalled the first time i recognized the pronunciation of 'bona fide'. It staggered out of my English professor's mouth like a gringo on spring break. Forgive me if i pretend not to speak American.

Tea, a drink instead of Jam and Bread

Yes, while reading the first seven entries in my journal, i came upon the words "Cinnamon Toast Crunch" and suddenly experienced an urge to leap to my feet, bound across to the larder, snatchle a boxed cereal from the shelf, and snarfle it down with the soy milk because i think it may turn ugly soon.
Instead my flight was checked by a tea-cozy of contrasting knitted form, and an empty teacup at hand. Oh yes, and the pot full of amber liquid. So i drank some tepid tea instead. Sprigs of two varieties of mint went into it, one weedy, one not so weedy (speaking in terms of flavor, not growth habit; they're both weedy that way.)
Before the cup was half full, hindsight revealed the all-too-familiar pattern that had been about to manifest; i vastly prefer rice milk over soy, but the rice milk wasn't 'needing to be used'.

What goes on in a mind of a Punking {sic. typo. My Dad is the PunKing} Punkin Runner?

Well, on a hazy lazy Saturday when the world looks too hot for working, and i am being too old for playing, and my right arm is puffy with subcutaneous pus around a scab that may have been a spider bite and which may erupt in a fortnight or less as a volcano of necrotic flesh (can you hear the Vox of Experience here?)...
When, as i was saying, this is the case, something quite cheerful comes to me. Tea. So i'm here being playful with words for me and for you.
Maybe-- yes. I will go now and drench the remainder of that accidental bread-Pudding concoction i baked yesterday. With Rice milk. And eat.
Cheers,
PR

Twitter

We didn't get much of a storm last night. Sure, the wind was ok and the clouds mounted high up into the sky in rolling lumps of marshmallow, but the hail and rain and thunder and lightning were a little weak.
Apparently others nearby got hammered. Powerlines and trees down blocking the roads and making tv sets go blank. Or at least those are two of the happy results i could imagine.
The birds were all a-twitter, and i thought it best to join them outside.