03 May, 2005
1-2-3-4-5... senses working overtime

on these days when there's less panic and volumes of work to fret over, why is is impossible to concentrate?

yeah, the fuck if i know, either.

maybe it's sensory overload... or deteriorating brain cells. maybe, there's sinister powers afoot... or, nothing at all. probably, it's just the naturally chaotic scheme of things.

to the point:

strange noises... i was standing in the living room, having just shut the stereo off as Yoko went into her daily/weekly tirade of how fucked up the grocery store is: fat people; ridiculous waits at the checkout; yada-yada. i gave up listening.

in the silence... i could have sworn that i was hearing Indian music. as in Calcutta. wavery, slightly atonal. i checked to make sure everything was off, including the TV. yet, there it still was. i walked outdoors, around the house, back to where the cars were... still, the phantom raga.
no satisfaction, i walked back to the front porch... and there it was: through the trees, the same damned bugle that i'd hear a year or two ago... and now, it didn't sound "indian" at all. just "crappy". at least, i was sane... though, maybe, "imaginative".

later, i was cleaning the accumulated gunge out of the truck engine compartment, after an oil change. i picked up my left foot, and heard tinkling of metal. i set my foot back down, picked it back up, and there, again, the metallic sound. then again, and: nothing. and again. nothing.
then Yoko walks around the shed carrying metal tomato cages.

this last phenomenon was visual:
i did a little shakedown cruise, to determine that there were no leaks and that the earlier clutch adjustment made any difference in the truck gearchanges. i pulled back up to the same spot that i'd vacated, and shut the ignition off. i unbuckled, listened to the end of the song on the radio... and caught a glimpse of movement in the passenger's-side carpet. i bent down to get a better look... and out from under the dashboard, skittered a tiny grey field mouse, who stopped in the middle of the carpet in a small patch of sunshine. obviously, he'd had the ride of his life: body no bigger than a quarter, i could see his little lungs an whiskers inflate-and-deflate so fast, i could have sworn i heard his breath go "oofah-oofah-oofah".
anybody else would have had a heart attack.
me? i reached across to the opposite door, and waited for him to collect himself.. and out he shot into the Big World.

ok. the last entry said what i needed to say about the weekend. however, here's a pictorial essay:

errant grosbeak

kaffir lilly

what kind of Georgia O'Keefee pornography is this?

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