crust

Salutations and greetings from this side of a long absence,

The best part of any meal, should that meal contain it, is, by far, the cranberry sauce.  Some may suggest this is a debatable fact, given, to name just two potential objections, personal tastes and the varying quality of available cranberry sauces.  However, through years of dedicated meditation  specifically about this subject, I can say with conviction and without equivocation that, to the truly enlightened, there is no valid argument against the superiority of this resplendent dish of deepest vermillion ambrosia.  Full elucidation of the proof is left for future generations of philosophers.  With that out of the way, here is a very short story about despair:
On his last day in the nation of Iceland, Timothy the Wild did little different from all his other days in Iceland.

Valedictions and farewell,
walter

daring

Good day,

This morning, I saw a man while walking to school.  A quick visual assay resulted in the following estimates about this man:  mid-40s, white, thin but not necessarily athletic, balding, well-groomed goatee, lunatic.  I was walking down a hill, he was walking up the same hill pushing a three-wheeled wagon.  Lounging in the wagon was a trio of shaggy, moppish shih-tzu dogs, a panting, squirming mat of curious hair.  In the several tense seconds it took me to realize what he was carting about, I had fixed my eyes intently on his fuzzy strollered cargo, much to the man's dismay.  He said to me, dripping venom, "How dare you!" and walked hurriedly away.

To the diversity of life,
walter

guest

Harken, amigos,

I have a brother, his name is George. He's a pretty good brother, as brothers go. Maybe even as brothers don't go, depending on what exactly that means. I'm sure you get the point.

Here's another point. Recently, my brother shared with me, in strictest confidence, the draft of a manuscript he penned in a potentially heat-exhaustion-induced moment of hallucinogenic clarity. The universe peeled away its thin candy shell and revealed its manifold glory. George, filter, distiller, captured the summation of overwhelming cosmic truth in prose, thus (set in italics as an editorial device, meant to denote both guest authorship and a dream-like sense of bewilderment):

In the orange glow of twilight, in an arid environment, many creatures are astir that would normally be napping in their burrows, cuddled to their loved ones, or hidden in the shadow of a bush. But not at this moment, lizards skipping from sand wrinkle to sand wrinkle, barely touching ground. Birds harkening to their amigos, hopping, not quite ready for flight. Snakes always seem to slither, after plenty of time basking. Horny toads living up to their name in so many ways. Even the occasional mouse can be seen speeding down a dune or two. That is life on the Mojave I suppose, never enough prose, but sights to inspire it. How do such pretty flowers emerge, seemingly from nowhere, when the desert takes but a tiny drink of the world's water? Not a place for humanity some say, others appreciate the beauty of the barren. Most of the naysayers appear well watered like an orchid in an obsessive florist's greenhouse. Most of the appreciators have a leathery toughened look; skin that appears to have seen more sun and less moisture than even the desert. Dried apricots, say the plump plums. But, I? I am neither, I am but a cactus on the sand. An observer, usually impartial to life's events, but witness nonetheless. What happened on these sands a few fortnights ago, burdens even my soul. Had I arms I would have used them. I was appalled by the activity of that overly watered beast, hydrocephaly, if you ask me. Murder, the very word upsets me. It doesn't do justice to the victim. It sounds so petty and contrived. But, that is exactly what I saw. The horrible butcher! Nadia Nopales, was a gentle soul, sure she was tough on the outside, prickly probably best describes her personality, but she was kind at heart. And what a glory to behold, she kept me going from day to day, some would call her my lover if cacti can be considered capable of such a thing. All in the name of a burrito, I, Sylvester Saguaro, swear revenge!!!!! What a travesty...

Let that sink in for a while.

Perhaps there is more to this tale, but I am not the one to ask.

Curiously,

walter

alarme falso

Boas noticias,

Nao e quebrado. Mas, preciso parar de jogar por algum tempo. Melhore rapidamente, dedo do pe.

walter

futebol

Oi!

Ja acabei de jogar futebol com um time brasileiro. Fiz um gol e ajudou num outro! Tenho ginga pra caralho, meu. (Eu tou me achando, ne?). Acho que eu quebrei um dedinho, mas vai melhorar.

Tchau,
walter

compliments

Friends,

Recently, I attended a farmer's market and received one of the best compliments I have ever been given by a stranger. Strolling around the booths, I saw a man hawking his green, multi-ingredient concoction and decided to sample some. The drink was tasty, but that is not the point. The man had a stringy goatee hanging tenaciously from his chin down to mid-chest, and he said to me with a glint of admiration in his eyes: do you climb mountains? No preamble, straight to the point. It would have been a stretch to reply yes. I have been to the top of several mountains, most with well-groomed trails and cellphone reception. But the gleam in the man's eyes, the timbre of his gruff voice, suggested the dreamy luster of a month-long, solitary march through harsh conditions, living from the fat of the land and the sharpness of my wits. I have not done this. But, to be mistaken for someone who does, or even could, made me smile.

Sally forth,

walter

exhaustion

Hello friends,

Looking in a mirror today: People look strange. Wait, I look like a person. Strange.

On a slightly related note, I've turned in a paper.

That's all for now,

walter

resolution

Hello fellow survivors,

We have an answer (with apologies for distorting poor old Tom's intentions):

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

It's still twinkling too much for my tastes, but we shall make do, shall we not?

Strange,
walter

addendum

Quick note,

I am in love with the world. I don't want it to end today or tomorrow.

Hoping those ladies were wrong,
walter

rapture

Blessings, dear friends,

Whilst ambling along the avenue yesterday evening, I was approached by a pair of doom criers. One, despondent, unkempt, penning a mournful wail in her tearful eyes, mouth formed vainly for its escape, wore a board proclaiming the end of the world on May 21st. She staggered, speechless, back and forth across the sidewalk, plaintively meeting the eyes of each passing pedestrian in turn. Her partner, more sober, followed a few steps behind with a stack of brochures. Most passers-by did exactly that, as quickly as possible. But I stopped a moment and collected a pamphlet. There was a brief flicker of hope across the faces of the duo before they realized, likely for the thousandth time, that it, along with everything else, would be short lived. I thanked them and walked on. The point, whose deeper meaning and contradictory nuances I will leave for you to ponder in the short time we have remaining: the pamphlet was in essence a mail-in coupon for more information.

The day approacheth,
walter

shoes

Gesundheit,

I almost bought a pair of red shoes today. My last pair wore out a long time ago and I've been staidly hobbling about in sedate black ones. Fret not, gentle reader, for I well know the benefits of black shoes, my classic set in particular, and would no sooner debase them than accept a slap in the face; fresh, clean, versatile, they pass as well in casual company as they do in tuxedoed formality. And yet... and yet. Here is a brief story about adventure.

Seven years ago, or maybe it's even eight now, Mr. Percival Reginaldus Tweedie, a cheerful, plump vacuum salesman on a 10-town rotation, had saved up enough money to take a break from his rounds. After consulting his oldest friends, some of whom did not like Percival at all but couldn't find the courage to terminate such a long-standing friendship, he decided to rent a kayak and ply the silken, salient waves of the Red Sea, north to south. His friends chuckled morbidly after they'd dropped him at the airport, and didn't much expect to see him again. They were starkly aware of what Percival so blissfully was not. Perils, non-exhaustively: pirates, though not likely interested in a lone kayaker, lack of water, lack of food, heat, clumsiness, sun, navigational miscalculations, sharks, jackal-headed doubt gnawing fringes of his soul in the darkness, dust storms, language barriers, solitude, Portuguese Men-of-War, the sheer massive length of what, to poor Percival, seemed a quaint oasis in an exotic locale. His friends were right, it was a foolish trip. They've never seen Mr. Tweedie since. I think he plans to keep it that way.

Tally ho,
walter

quote

Ideality
Hartley Coleridge

The vale of Tempe had in vain been fair,
Green Ida never deem’d the nurse of Jove;
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove,
Had idly murmur’d to the idle air;
The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair
In Delphi’s cell, and old Trophonius’ cave,
And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave
Had never blended with the sweet despair
Of Sappho’s death-song: if the sight inspir’d
Saw only what the visual organs show,
If heaven-born phantasy no more requir’d
Than what within the sphere of sense may grow.
The beauty to perceive of earthly things,
The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings.

royalty

Happy Queen's Day!

In order to celebrate the birthday of the Dutch queen (actually the Dutch Queen's mother, and even that may be wrong. My recollection fades. Someone was born, at some point in the past, and celebrations are due), I will be selling some of my possessions on a rug in front of my apartment. I expect that no one will have any clue what I am doing, for several reasons. Reason the first, I live in the united states. Reason the second, there is little through traffic. Reason the final, I have few possessions to sell. I can probably spare a pair of socks or two, or an old red shirt I still have despite it being full of holes. I was given a toothbrush at a recent dentist appointment, which I will endeavor to sell also. It is still sanitized, sealed in plastic, for the epidemiologists who may be reading. So, on my rug with shirt, sock, and toothbrush, I will pass the time this afternoon, hawking. Trimming the ascetic fat from years of accumulation. Perhaps I'll even make a sign.

wish me luck,
walter

horrorshow

Meine damen und herren,

Friday evening I had the pleasure of sitting through St. John's Passion. The instruments were made to the specifications of those at the time of the writing, according to the introduction given by the conductor. Then, they began playing, and I started remembering things from pasts that may even have been my own, but you will likely recognize them as not and as inapplicable: 'Oh bliss! Bliss and heaven! Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now,' or, really, the suffusive orange glow of a ticking clock, each clicking twitch an incantation of all prior ticks and all ticks to come, worked into the world by gears steadily, inaudibly grinding.


ruht wohl und bringt auch mich zur Ruh,
walter

nutrients

Good day,

In my dreams I am a tree in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The apocalypse itself was a slow fizzle by human standards, but to my contracted perception of time it was a flash in the otherwise constant gloaming hum of days and nights that bleed together. I lay down new roots in all directions, shearing off those which have consumed what meager nutrients remain in the scorched earth, and shifting my bulk toward untouched pockets. Mindless, I nevertheless have some systemic, ingrained (you'll get it) memories of a time when circumstances were better.

I've also decided to purchase only those things that, when consumed or broken, leave either no waste behind or waste that would be of some potential use to a hardened wanderer stumbling across it in a dump somewhere in the cold, dead future. This leaves me with few options, but I will try to make do for your sake, noble vagrant of the future.

Bon chance,
walter

wild

Hello,

A couple weeks ago, I learned what oats look like when growing in the wild. As a child, I saw them all the time and used them as projectiles because they stick to shirts, blissfully ignorant of their true identity. Now, every day I wake up into a world full of new knowledge, new sources of tiny snacks while I walk to campus, new hopes and possibilities.

cheers,
walter

shrewd

Good evening,

Stevie Bindalow never has time to sit still. Neither does Samuel, who spends most of his time several steps behind Stevie. Biologically, they both need to eat every fifteen minutes, on average, or their metabolisms will sputter to a stop, and they will die. As a consequence, they are constantly busy finding food. Stevie is, at least. Samuel offers unwanted criticism and, when food is scarce, peculiar though it may seem to an observer, laments the misguided confusion of his friend.
Why would you choose this gully, Stevie? Everyone knows there is no food here at this time of the year. We really need to eat, Stevie, why does it seem like I'm the only one paying attention to our food situation? I'm so sick of this.
I'm sorry, Samuel. I should have known this place had nothing. Oh look, there we go, there are some tasty grubs right there under those leaves, friend. Let's eat.
I've heard that Horace once asked Stevie why he tolerated such a leech. Stevie ignored him. Although their lives may seem hectic, their general quickness slows down time enough that, mostly, they feel relaxed. And, there's enough food to go around. What would Stevie do without Samuel? He doesn't take the time to think about it.

Good night,
walter

desert

Happy new year,

While in the desert, at approximately 00:03 January 1, 2011, I was almost eaten by a coyote. Or, standing on the other foot, I was suddenly and fleetingly connected to the protective presence of a majestic creature.

In my dream, I am a coyote now, passing unseen through the harsh nocturnal landscape. I am alone for the moment. The creosote scent of the rain-touched bushes hangs above the coarse sand, and through this gauzy cloud I follow the distinct scent I have been tracking. I am a patient, tireless hunter. I yip and bark at the moon because I can.

until next,
walter