Ordinary Gods
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I love this image.
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Today I am cleaning the house, one of my favorite things to do in the world. I didn't used to be a clean freak, but after standing around in enough tweaker shitholes I started to seriously want everything I looked at and sat on and slept in and ate off of or showered in to be clean.
Really clean.
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My wife hates a lot of stuff about my job. She doesn't complain much about the cleaning part.
Ha.
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I am craving the mixed seafood quesadillas at Pier 46, which is this tiny and awesome land-locked fish store in Templeton, forty miles from the closest water. But the owners are passionate and crazy and they have live crabs and lobsters and oysters and mussels and clams and fat loins of sashimi grade tuna and fresh ceviche and I am going there with my gorgeous wife for the quesadillas and I will buy three pounds of green lipped mussels and I will cook them for dinner in a godawful mess of garlic and butter and we are going to eat them and drink a cold bottle of something white, something I've never had before, and goddamn if we won't have chocolate souffles and ice cream after and then watch something Japanese and snuggle up on the sofa and that, dear reader, is my precise and compricated pran.
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I am not any more disturbed than it is useful to be.
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posted by tearful dishwasher at 9:45 AM
7 Comments:
I love that image too. The extremes of it, the touch, the turning away, the nonchalance of beauty and the hard gaze. It's very much like your blog and what I try to imagine is you. But you are a complicated soul. And a thrilling one. And god you got a way with words.
You have a real good dinner, you and your wife. Forget everything while you're there.
The cleaning thing. I so totally get that. I get crazed up on it every once in a while. It's akin to self flagellation I fear. For me anyway. If I can just get behind the stove I will be forgiven.
Hahaa. We little gods are so damned funny.
xor
I like to clean, too, particularly the inside of drawers, one at a time, only one in a day. A little world inside of there, all tidy.
Does this have something to do with out fine-tuned palates? Probably not.
What, pray tell, is written all over the redhead's body?
My word verfication is colaas.
Which is so damned close to coolass.
Not close enough, alas.
The cleaning thing comes upon me like a fever.
I start and can't stop until everything is spotless and gleaming.
Laurel-
It's says "virgin" over and over.
I'm glad all you ladies came by. Wish I could offer you all a pitcher of ice-cold lemoncello.
namaste!
I just enlarged the image and was stunned to see the wolf in the background, which is in plain view even in the smaller image.
This image is one of yours?
I love how textural it is when enlarged.
I can't believe I never saw the wolf until right now.
Oh, and skip the lemoncello, buddy. I'll take you up on one of those dirty martinis you once offered me though--on that day long ago and far away when I drove over the hornet's nest with my lawn mower....
Laurel-
Yeah, the imgage is one of mine. The woods and sky and grass and wolf are from a photograph I took on one of my walks on the cliffs overlooking the sea here in town. The woman is Helga, Andrew Wyeth's secret lover, with the script added by another artist, I forget who now, but she makes collages and postcards and such and I stole the woman from her. The man is from a National Geographic magazine in 1955 that I cut out and use from time to time.
I'm glad you took a moment and looked more closely and got something new from it.
And a dirty martini it is!
yrs-
tearful
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