in which witness is borne: birds, politics, fiction and critical art theory

fit of giggles

Saturday, December 18, 2004
twisting on the bed with cats and laughter we got up to a cold cold december day. its like a house years after it was built, settling into the land and finding its angles and its certain slouch, which is the feeling of having a familiar kitchen and familiar stove to clean and record player in the corner playing joni mitchell and magnets to stick the bills up on the fridge.
thanks for the magnets, by the way, for my birthday mom and dad.
i'm going to think of a story to give this blog every so often.
this is part of combating what Michael Brenson calls this administration's "assault on memory." if we let them make us forget then we'll be losing our own stories (whisper: including the stories of birds--like the 52% of north american migrant birds which will be extinct by 2100 if development continues at current pace)!
[Harriet get off my lap!
today's story: Age Five. We had a Chinese Elm tree in the front yard. Big, old tree-i had a complicated relationship with it. It kept the traffic noise down from the semi-major highway which was our street. sometimes the neighbors (who, in retrospect, were either freaks or ahead of their time in pet fashion cause i remember their dog went regularly to have his nails done) would let me walk their dog Sam. Sam Sam Sam.
Anyway, my uncle Ron died. this i experienced as, not only his prolonged absence, but two impressive events, one of which involved the Chinese Elm.

2:23 PM :: ::
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