You've got a great close-up lens on your camera. You can actually see where Mr. Stripey Eye pierced your skin! Ow!
in Wisconsin, there's a fly that has an anesthetic in its bite, so you don't feel it. They usually land right on the back of your neck, you don't know until they fly away and you feel blood dripping. (They have an anti-coagulant as well.)
Sunny had never been very good at meditation. As hard as he tried to focus on his breathing and simply allow his thoughts to float on by like clouds across the open skies of his mind, he always found himself thinking and thinking and thinking about one thing or another.
Like Daisy. She was one of Sunny's favorite things to think about. Daisy Mountainbloom's golden-blonde hair and deep green eyes... or were they hazel? Blue maybe? He couldn't picture them clearly for some reason.
Whenever they happened to pass one another, she'd say "Morning Sunflower," or "Afternoon Sunflower," always using his full first name, and always with that lovely and genuine smile. This usually sent Sunny into a state of partial paralysis, wherein he was lucky if he could manage to utter so much as a meager "Hi," while she was still within earshot.
Of course, Daisy was probably dancing and drinking and enjoying herself thoroughly at the moment, in the company of jovial partygoers and talented musicians and other attractive young Nicefolk of more appropriate height.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby, drawing Sunny out of his reverie. "Who? Who? Whooo?" the owl asked.
Sunny didn't know, and said as much, "I don't know." Then he did some seated stretches and twists, resulting in pleasant cracking sounds from his joints. Slowly he uncrossed his legs and stood up, gently bumping his head on a low-hanging hemlock branch.
He was pretty sure he knew which direction to go to get back to the village, and so he began meandering his way between trees and bushes, stepping over stumps and rotting logs, and carefully making his way back home through the darkness of night.
Arriving at the little gate built into the little fence around his little house and garden, Sunny stopped and stood for a moment. Even in the dim moonlight, surveying his home and garden gave him great comfort. The silhouettes of his cherry and peach and plum trees reaching for the distant stars, below that the spreading branches of his hazelnut and blueberry and pea shrubs, and finally the squat rounded shapes of his herb mounds. Simply looking at his food forest brought him an inner peace that his attempts at meditation could not, and all thoughts of Daisy and the party left his mind.
Ducking to enter through the round door of his house built into the hill, Sunny's stomach growled loudly. He hadn't eaten anything since afternoon tea, and it was now well past supper time.
He rummaged through the cupboard, pulling out a tiny jar of blueberry jam and another of hazelnut butter. He then proceeded to make and eat two and a half sandwiches, finishing off both jars and the end of a loaf of bread, and washed it all down with a cup of cider. Thus sated, he settled down into his favorite easy chair and picked up the dog-eared book sitting on the table.
It was an old book. Some of the pages were missing and others were loose. The original title and author had been worn away and were illegible now, but a more recent handwritten title read simply, "Some Poems."
He opened it at random and began reading:
"Sweet like how the night sounds, fluttering moth wings, rustling leaves, distant echoes of dulcimer strumming
"Sweet like how the sky looks, a glowing halo around the moon, shimmering stars sending shivers down my spine
"Sweet like the dawn’s first ray of golden sunlight, piercing the monochrome shadows blanketing the woods and infusing the world with vivid living color
"Sweet like the bee’s knees, like pollinating arcadian imagery, like yoga in the dappled shade on a warm and windy day."
There was more of this rhymeless so-called poetry, but by then Sunny was fast asleep, the book propped open across his chest.
While James and I were sourcing more rocks today, we came across the biggest Doug Fir I've seen so far at the labs. I just had to give this Doug a hug. My arms couldn't even reach all the way around! And I've got some pretty long arms...
Also had a chance to talk with Ernie a bit more about the design of my shelter. I'm now thinking of building the side walls of stone, and of curving them out to both resist the lateral force of the earth berms and also to have a slightly larger and more attractive interior space. Thanks for the excellent feedback and advice, Ernie!
Evan, I am so into what you are doing and have been following this thread even though I am basically online for zero minutes per day. I appreciate what you are doing and look forward to meeting.
But I must now correct you and Jocelyn:
I do not do drystack. Certainly, I'm no expert at it.
Yes, I've been trying to come up with a polite way to say that, for days, cause it drove me crazy in the emails...... Dry stone, dry stone masonry, natural stone hardscape, landscaping with stone=cool. Whatevs. Stone artisan, stone guy, stone dude, stone-er. rock knocker=all acceptable. Landscaper, hardscaper, mason, waller even=cool. Dry stack expert however, ooh, a knife in the heart.
Anyway, I shant censor you, you can call your own work dry stack till the cows come home.
Alright, I'm done.
All the above, intended good naturedly.
Signed, your trusty-dusty, handy-dandy, friendly neighborhood stone guy(tm)
posted 4 years ago
evan l pierce wrote:Day 63
James and I moved a few tons of rocks over to Ava today. Thanks James! There's lots of projects I'd like to do that will benefit from some stone, and a drystack expert is supposed to be arriving soon, so I thought it'd be a good idea to have some material staged and ready.
Oh I'm on my way alright. Rather stoked of course, too.
I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam - the great philosopher Popeye. Tiny ad:
Hope in a World of Crisis - Water Cycle Restoration