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dogtrax @dogtrax@mastodon.social

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I recently had a new experience. A restaurant I visit fairly regularly appeared to create a new rule for me on the fly! "No handstands in the dining area; for the safety of everyone"

I was completely clear of any potential harm to anyone/thing, but I understand completely why she got up from the management meeting they were clearly having to ask me to stop.

I'll just have to do my coffee handstand in a different section of the restaurant next time!
#smallstories #circuslife #handstands

“If it’s fiction, then it better be true.”

-- from You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie, page 328

Take two dogs. Add one sleepy person at 5 a.m in morning. Toss in raccoon, which found its way into the garage. Place two dogs, one sleepy man, one raccoon into one small confined space -- oh, let's just say, the landing of garage right where door opens up -- and watch chaos immediately ensue as dogs go after raccoon, raccoon scrambles to avoid dogs, and man screams for dogs to stop while yanking open garage door for raccoon exit. Heart beats pounding in all, as scene fades.

(Someone elsewhere asked if I haiku. I do.)

Yes, I do haiku:
Close my eyes to imagine
past and present, twined

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givens apples, painted by ellen isham schutt, 1913

You’re as handy
as a pocket on a shirt
as a seed in the dirt
as a band-aid on the hurt
as a moment in the sun
as a time-lapse camera
angled, for a reason,
at almost,
but not quite, someone
as a smile
nearly makes the world
always seem so much better:
for I always notice your words
when I peruse your
daily
off-kilter
always-intriguing
bullshit-filtered
email newsletter

@tellio you rock!

“This memoir. It’s going to have a lot of blank space. I suppose I could really dig into the research and get stuff as accurate as possible, But I like the blank spaces. I like how they feel. I want my readers to know how I feel. I want them to feel the loss.”

-- from You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie, page 245

The nest lay on the ground, just below the tree. It looked like more a clump of dead leaves than home for bird or squirrel. Upon closer look, I admired the perfection of construction of this little abode. In fact, I was amazed to see strands of blue from an old rope we had on the tree, green threads from a chair, and other borrowed objects used in its assembly. I wondered who was homeless now, and where they might go. I left the nest there in case it might be scavenged by others.

I Fire and Fury by Michael Wolff (I had resisted until a friend handed me his copy) and it is all bat-shit craziness, and I am not sure I even trust Wolff all that much as a writer.

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in this mountain village
before dawn
a skylark sang
in this mountain village

“They say they want to include everyone’s voices, and your stories are probably more interesting than most people’s. Plus then we can both be in there. The time capsule, I mean. Not the prison.”

-- from Breakout, by Kate Messner, page 32

Too many poets
wing it, inventing science
behind pretty words

(There's a Sunday Haiku thread on birdsite with @Algot and @wentale that this poem relates to but I liked this haiku enough to bring it over here, too)

We heard what seemed to be the flutter of a hummingbird. This is always cause for pause. It zoomed past the flowers, and began to bump into the wall. "Careful," my wife murmured. It flew closer and my wife realized, "that's no hummingbird." It was not. It was one of the largest, ugliest beetles I have seen in some time. Dark with large wings, and huge antennae. It landed with a thud behind my wife and started to scramble on the deck. That was enough for my wife, who bolted inside.

“Writing about illness is a form of travel writing. The writer’s mind stands at attention, even when her body cannot, because she has entered a new environment … Everything feels as if it’s of note.”

-- from Look Alive Out There, by Sloane Crosley, page 165

Wander in
to witness
the way green
fills this gray world
with so many
color tone hues

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When I was five years old, I had a friend whose mother kept a collection of beautiful wooden birdhouses out in the shed. That summer, she gave us a nickel for every cast-off cicada nymph shell we brought her, which she then put in the empty birdcages. We weren’t allowed to touch the cages, but we’d stand out in the shed in the thick summer heat and look at them. By the end of the summer we had collected enough cicada shells to completely fill each of the birdcages.

The sky seems lower to earth this morning. I know it has to do with cloud cover and possibility of rain. Still. It seems as if something magical happened in the night, and we are only now noticing, sitting here in solitude. The tall trees seem to be reaching a bit higher. There are no breaks in the clouds, no way to sense orientation. No blue sky compass. No sun. Perhaps the day has yet to change again. Perhaps not. Until then, we’ll revel in the sense of higher latitudes.

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"What a mature citizen of the digital age should be competent at is not spotting and confirming the veracity of the news. Rather, she should be competent at reconstructing the reputational path of the piece of information in question, evaluating the intentions of those who circulated it, and figuring out the agendas of those authorities that leant it credibility."

aeon.co/ideas/say-goodbye-to-t

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I started falling asleep in a meeting, and here is what I wrote down (more or less...my half asleep handwriting is hard to decipher)

A button shaped like a gem
A rabbit runs inside it eternally
A star falls beside it.
There is a question of purpose.
It collapses, it collapses.
Does it matter if it is real?
It's all new again.
We are free again.

#DreamyTimePoetry
#SmallStories

“You lock into what’s there, you see things that others do not, you create, you distract and disrupt yourself with what is not there, and you start the process over again.”

-- from Creative Quest by Questlove (with Ben Greenman), page 156