Of all of the lessons and examples in the world of trite or fickle love, one of the things I tease myself over most is 'real love'. Fierce, enduring, evolving. Some are not capable, some less fortunate, some unwilling.
Unlikely and silly as it may be, these tales do exist. And I so enjoy them.

A Short Open Letter to my Adopted Country

Two (perhaps I am permitted one a year, therefore) quibbles:

One forbidden act here is the yawn in public. Every day I see someone perform amazing calisthenic repression--this in a culture which simultaneously rewards facial hurdles. Quirks in verbal expression born on a small obsessively manicured island half a world away. Go ahead and Yawn. All part of my diabolical plan.

You're very polite, really you are. But here in the capitol city, inside the make-believe walls that keep away the bogans from the wop-wops, there lurks a more sinister foe. One that seems to fester in curliecue redolence in the wake of all these 'regards' and 'Ta's'. A bitter whispered secret which occupies far too much of your lovely days. I've worked with trash-mouthed queens and potty-mouthed boy-men, and ya'll need to give it a rest. Dahlink.

Ah, that's better.

It's a great big ocean.
Perhaps some sushi would best put in mind its pleasures.

This has got to be the nth time the story of stuff has been referenced in this blog. Why hasn't it been on Oprah?

Copenhagen or bust?


A considerable portion of the articles here referenced have to do with the divorce with nature (as if it's an either\or option any more)--and many more with its effects. The last 4 cities I've lived in were progessively smaller (New York, Chicago, Denver, Wellington)--and the one I have my eye on is smaller still. Why?