shed.

every day i'm making moves.
sometimes they're major,
other times miniscule,
but i'm making 'em no matter what.

today's big dilemma?
am i baking some good or not?
and if i AM gettin' busy behind an apron,
and preheatin' my oven to a convectionary 375 degrees,
then what exactly am i making:
oatmeal chocolate chip rock blocks?
peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip rock blocks?
real life just isn't easy, son.
it's the critical decisions that make or break a day.
is peanut butter necessary?
in everyday application? yes.
in crucially delicious cookies? i don't know.
the wrong call,
and i'm four dozen doses of dopeness
that my temeritous tastebuds just don't want to experience.
i'm on the fence.
***********
wood gets shed,
but not like dead branches.
more like caveman talk.
wood gets shed.
as in, the building.
no sloughing or exfoliating at all.
just the big, burly business of lag bolts
and joists and sh!t like that...
except,
the lumber isn't getting delivered until thursday.
the very day i get back to the grind at the tatzap studio.
awwwww, man.
so much for building some herculean manliness
during my days off.
i haven't seen the sun in forever, it seems,
and even when it isn't raining,
the clouds are hanging out in my front yard,
right before my face, ninjas.
gorilla-like, in the mist, in amidst my asters.
long arms, long days, pronounced canines on a vegetarian,
gorilla-like.
silver is back, and everywhere at once.
you like it.
king, donkey, or dog toys,
it's magilla like a grape ape over here;
never quiet, never soft.....

back to basics.

avuncular corpuscles.
it sounds much worse than it is.
there's nothing wet or arterial or infectious implied.
it's more of a spirit and memory kind of a thing.
not big words just for the sake of themselves, either.
i'm talking about deja vu and cultivated coincidences.
y'know,
ghost circles and smoke rings-type sh!t.
discrete influences from proactive particles that bring
up recollections of some really real old times an' that.
reminiscing about folks i can't talk to anymore,
y'know,
some really upbeat gray-day rainy november-appropriate thoughts.
just the present,
presented in a post-mortem, phantasmal package from the past.
fantastic.
weird dreams make short nights longer,
and vice-versa.
***********
it's almost our weekend here in the soggy serenity of the mountains.
and dang it for it's dampness,
it's raining again, and that's a batch of b!tchbaggery,
but it's not snowing,
unlike some waterbaby plots of weak-saucery.
(i'm looking at YOU connecticut)
just one more day of zippity-doo-doo,
and zappity-blasting,
and then i've got wood to work,
holes to drill,
plenty of nailing,
and poles to erect.
that's exactly what SHE said;
never quiet, never soft.....

double-destroyer.

it isn't raining.

and it's an hour earlier than i'm used to getting out of bed.
-like the natural order of things has been turned inside out.
there's daylight, but not quite sunlight,
and the only dew-dew buttery moisture on the ground
is the half-inch thick layer of frost on everything.
dew-dew.
c'mon.
still, despite the deep freeze dawn's earliest,
the semi-actual early rising for unsexy still-live bird/worm scenarios
has got me up and at them like a champ.
or maybe it was the positive reiki vibes......?
***********
soooo,
a pair of my best and most favoritest clients
came up for the whole day in the woodsly goodness.
i tattooed my buddy gina for her birthday,
and afterwards i got a present.
a digit-repairing, palm-calming, wrist-soothing hand massage.
for those of you who know about the stand-up steadfast
standoffishness that i hold to so dearly,
the less-than-arm's-length physical contact
may seem slightly out of character.
but, after six straight hours of grinding,
my gorilla paws were severely strained.
eentsy-meentsy little details, y'all.
you'd think i'd stop doing that to myself....
but i choose the wrench, ninjas.
every time.
here's just a little taste:

see that little bit of sweet boob action?

yep.
you just get a little bit of the treats.
i zapped it up all flippin' day.
...and it's a cover-up.
...and i kept adding little uber-tight 3 liner bits of action to it, too.
that whole head is only like 2 inches wide.
(that's what she said?)
that means your screenshot is probably bigger than actual size.
and that's why i let my mitt get massaged and (wo)man-handled.
truth is,
it doesn't feel as bowstring-taut and ouchy as usual this morning.
we'll count that as a victory.
***********
it's 11-7.
or 7-11, for all y'all from everywhere but here.
either way,
it's craps.
there's a hot and sweaty batch of
belligerently un-tastic on the menu for my A* today.
oh, craps.
a total bust-out, even.
but,
i do what i do regardless.
the only forseeable outcome?
G.S.M.
Gimme S'Money.
you know this, duders.
tighten it up with the wrench,
turn it clockwise,
to eleven,
and bring the sunday, bloody sunday-type styles.
hard. loud. and fresh.
for your sunuvab!tchin' miki-lickin' face;
never quiet, never soft.....

saturn.

this is it, my ninjas.
the last day of saved-up daylight time.
tomorrow morning,
sunshine and moonlight tell all your mutha-b!tchin' clocks
that they need to fall the F* back, son.
we gain an hour of night,
but still keep the day at 24 of 'em overall.
mostly,
a little more restful relaxation is on the docket.
about 60 minutes worth, by my math.
that means slightly brighter grays in the a.m.,
and deeper darknesses for the mid-afternoon.
not that it would make much difference up here lately.
it's been sunless and pale-lit
and paltry in the bright, bright, bright department.
in fact,
it's prime conditions for vitamin D deficiency,
and seasonal affective light deprivation disorders.
but only if you're a wingey mink-pantsed diaper baby.
vikings don't get all sad and mincey about the shadowy suckiness,
and it stays brutally dark out up in the northern reaches
for six whole flippin' months.
they never even heard of saving daylight.
they made up for it with axe-chop beheadings,
and plunder,
and pillaging,
and stealing some tasty ladies from their native lands...
y'heard?
you just have to embrace the dungeony darkness within.
that's word.
and then,
all of a sudden, you realize some things:
that real ninjas do real sh!t under cover of night;
that stars look invisible during the day;
that fires seem cozier when they cast a golden glow;
that tea and toast taste better in the dawn's early action an' that.
word.
right now, however, in these sunless lands,
it feels like 9ish because it IS 9ish.
that's comforting.
i can't hold a tune very well,
but i can keep the rythym circadian like a mutha-ucka.
my biological clock is attached to dynamite,
and it's ticking towards a TNT tomorrow.
time gets taken.
and there's no making up for lost amounts.
substitutions will not be tolerated.
it's not like baking, y'know?
applesauce = eggs in a cake recipe,
but now try scrambling applesauce.
awwwwww, man.
it loses a whole mess of something in translation.
take your time, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

remember, remember....

gunpowder!
guy fawke's day.
bonfires.
treasony plots that should never be forgot...
but what do WE have to show for it?
a deep, dark, dolorous day.
awwwwww, man.
where's the sun, duders?
it isn't hanging out here, that's for sure.
and it's molto difficult to just grab a tinder and flint
for spaking up an anti-parliamentarian funeral pyre
under the crushing cloudcover,
the wet woodsly saturated and sopping sh!t-salad
of drenched and quenched combustibles in a drizzle.
fact.
so,
instead,
it looks like a dearth of dopeness
and the dread of another 'nother sunless set of hours.
the sun still rises and sets behind all this grim grayness.
i know that.
and yet it's dusk until dusk, from dawn.
lighter gray is the only indicator of time's passage.
that's a sure-enough long night.
so far it's been about 36 hours.
lugubrious is my realm this day, neighbors.
that's word.
***********
guy fawkes may have been a murderous extremist,
but he didn't deserve to get tattlebabied on.
i mean,
that's just not cool.
and nobody likes a snitch.
especially not mr. fawkes.
he kinda got F*'d up after the
anonymous letter sold his A* out.
i mean, he stage-dived face first off the scaffold,
and broke his OWN neck....
but got drawn and quartrered anyway.
that's such a hard style.
but of course now there's a bonfire and fireworks
celebrating his capture, torture, and death,
so almost everybody wins.
...except catholics in 1605.
hey-O!
really,
it's just another case of keeping it real
by playing it close.
don't talk about it, be about it.
don't dream it, be it.
and don't tell mutha-b!tches what time it is,
because snitchy tattletale babyholes just can't resist
blabbity-blabbing all the hottness away.
of course,
if it clears up in these fog-kisssed peaks,
i'm still gonna burn the ever-lovin' living sh!t
outta some barbarian beacon brushpiles.
a fire is a fire, after all.
sorry guy;
never quiet, never soft.....

if i could chuck.

how much wood would i chuck?
a lot.
check out the pile of positively warm winter-readiness:

uh-huh.

18" logs,
and not just because of yesterday's panniecakes.
the thing is,
these hefty hunks of home-heating solution
are going to have to concentrate their british thermal unit potential
whilst hanging out in the driveway for a little minute.
uh-huh.
because my yard is a whole lot like an airedale...
brown & black, no shed.
oh, c'mon.
***********
the shovel.
yeah, that's right.
the shovel is the greatest social equalizer.
everybody gets a shovel,
and everybody does the same thing.
everybody shovels.
that's put folks on an even playing field.
it might even favor big dummies.
in fact,
the pampered and the privileged
would get a quick wake-up into the world of work.
and most surely be at a blistered, broken-backed disadvantage.
but for the hearty and the hale,
common ground gets found,
and broken, so to speak.
give me a shovel and i'm as good as the next guy,
but give me a pencil,
and i'm worth eleven.
ooooooooooooh, sh!t.
that's smart kid smack talk right there.
just sayin'.
you can get busy on a whole lot more with a pencil.
or a pen.
whatever.
mightier than swords, an' that.
and shovels.
but probably not wrenches.
just think about it a little.
*
oh,
and it's sleeting outside, now.
on my low-moisture super-seasoned wood.
that's what you get for speaking too soon, i suppose.
...which means my wood's gettin' wet.
now normally,
that's not a bad thing at all,
but today,
i can't really hang out.
tarps and tie-downs and temeritous traipsing
all to keep the damp doo-doo butter
off of my beautiful red oak logs.
hatches are gettin' battened,
skies are being cursed.
mountainous mounds of crucial combustibles,
and sleeting, sloshing suckiness from the other mountains.
really;
never quiet, never soft.....

oh! my goodness.

pumpkins and crunchy leaves.
clear nights and glowing embers.
the very best parts about november.
it smells so flippin' good.
what it looks like,
how it feels,
there's nowhere else like here.
and that's good.
because then it wouldn't be as special.

a burning ring of fire.
the very best method of enjoying the long nights.
nature sounds, and pipe smoke,
and the whole thing falls in place.
the big picture, in miniature.
right here in my own yard.

birch bark burns hotter than anything.
and the smoke is black and greasy.
but,
it lights fast and burns faster,
and starts the blazes in an instant.
there's an old busted doo-doo deadwood birch
rotting out it's remaining days as one-fourth
of the retaining wall for the compost pile.
he was a big 'un before his fall;
but THIS fall, his skin is my kindling for the fire pit.
waste not, an' that.

look at that rural philosopher.
what?
c'mon.
it's alright, duders.
you don't have to shield your eyes.
it's not medusa, after all-
it's a self-portrait of the artist as himself.
sorta sweaty, smoky, and sorta sucky as a serene sojourner,
but keeping it molto real in the woodsly goodness.
all pumpkin-colored in the firelight,
like a jaundiced journeyman of autumny exploration.

speaking of pumpkiny hottness.

those are exactly what you think they are:
pumpkin spice rock blocks.
yeah.
because everything else is just a lame cookie.
are they soft?
yeah.
moist?
sure.
chewy?
heck yes.
delicious?
c'mon,.
what am i?
an A*hole?
you already know they embody the spirit
and the memory,
of every kind of good vibe, positive thought,
and excellent feeling associated with this season.
rock blocks and pumpkins?
all the way to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

everything goes better with pancakes.

that's a fact.

a stout stack of syruped-up sweet treats,
and all of a sudden a frosty, freezy-freaky day
becomes a full-bellied bellows of blistering brightness.
throw in some soysages, too?
c'mon.
that's a buttload of bangin' business.
don't believe me?
okay.
then how do you explain THIS?:

ka-pow!

one fast...broken, fast.
that's one elite morning feast.
...for your face.
delivered deftly from the gas-flame griddle
to the breakfasty nooks and crannies
of the woodsly goodness.
that makes the post-election indigestion
of stormy, rabid politicos and their respective parties
much easier to weather.
i'm not saying i don't care about it at all.
i'm saying that i care almost not at all.
i'm busy living.
real life.
the independent declarer
and sole soul-sovereign of Folk Life & Liberty
for any and all worthy warrior poets,
berserker barbarian battle-beasts,
active participants,
lightning-striking vikings,
and the righteous rural real-life livers
of the woodsly good life.
the steadfast, stalwart suzerain of
gratitude and generosity.
no ayes or nays necessary, ninjas,
it's all really happening, like it or not.
***********
a powerful pile of panniecakes,
and 4 calamitous cords of hardwood.
that's molto lumberjack like a mutha-'ucka.
my beard is thickening as we speak, even.
and duders,
without seeming too satisfied,
let me brag a bit about blown insulation:
snug.
that's the word.
like a bug, in a rug.
it's still below freezing outside,
but the roasty toastiness is what's poppin' in here.
snug and comfortable and perfect.
that's that Folk Life sh!t.
i'm warm,
i'm full,
i'm doing what needs doing.
the balance of power has shifted
in the house of representatives,
but not in our house.
we're still representing.
and still perfectly poised in partnership,
and stockpiled with plenty of treats.
that's representative of the mountain realm.
hard styles, hard times, hard wood;
never quiet, never soft.....

election day.

so every little kid in the united states
gets today off from school...
that's somethin'.
just so 30% of their parents
can spend seven seconds pulling a lever,
to elevate their favorite talking-headache to
a paper-pushing father-knows-better-than-best job.
uh-huh.
that's efficiency.
it's no small wonder every candidate is such a turd;
water finds it's own level, it's been said.
whatever, duders.
vote, or don't,
either decision, or either team,even,
is just not relevant
to the big fun and bigger action of real life.
and real life has more to do with what's happening than
any political promises could ever be.
for instance:
guess who has got cords of wood coming his way?
yeah.
it's me.
that was an obvious one.
but still,
i've got the split-up trunks from a forestful of
inflammable freshness getting dropped off at the fortress.
wood, kids.
hard wood.
that's a real thing.
in so many ways, it's better than soft wood.
(yes, that IS what she said)
there's my vote, y'all.
to not freeze to death.
my party's platform?
a bundle of wood in every stove,
and two tofurkys in every pot.
Folk Life Libertarianism.
live free or die-type sh!t.
ballots cast (away) make great kindling.
word up.
***********
anyway,
i'm all up in the dark half of the year.
and for a year and a day,
i've been all up in the wifely hottness, too.
that's a bright spot for sure.
things happen, duders.
wood gets chopped,
wood gets burned,
wood grows on trees.
that's the truth.
happenings, and things;
never quiet, never soft.....

one year's worth.

happy anniversary.
that's what you're supposed to say to someone,
when the annual measured mile-marker of matrimony
rolls back around again on the calendar.
well, friends,
today's the day.
it's my anniversary.
more specifically,
it's our anniversary.
jessica and i.
today.
it's the first anniversary of our wedding.
...so,
start sayin' that sh!t.
one year's worth of oft-harmonious,
sometimes hegemonious,
but never parsimonious post-nuptial partnership.
one year's worth of hugs and kisses from my mrs.
one year's worth of time,
and energy,
and active participation.
one whole year's worth of home improvements,
self improvements,
and improved domestic blissfulness.
a whole year already.
already, already.
enough, already?
sorry duders.
today's the day.
and enough is never enough.
one day sums up one year sums up one relationship.
what i mean is:
it's a good day.
get it?
yeah.
***********
happy anniversary.
it's both of those things.
and that's the telltale sign of
a double-dose of dopeness.
twice as much awesome as the national average.
it's not just the big day,
it's a mutha-b!tching happy one, too.
i am grateful for the time i have been given.
i am grateful for the one who spans it with me.
and i am super-grateful that my time-lapsing
life-traipsing better-half is also a turbo-hot,
super-talented, remarkable, sparkle-magical
co-conspiratorial collaborator.
this whole month goes all the way to eleven.
starting today.
and that's a pretty fitting pretty picture.
sitting pretty,
to eleven.
together, even.
i presume your congratulations.
i'm kind of like that;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit, rabbit.

happy november, neighbors!

*
you already know i said the magic abracadabras:
'rabbit, rabbit.'
...like out of a hat an' that.
good luckiness,
and lucky goodness,
for a whole other 'nother month.
and that's not even nearly all the freshness
that's getting dispensed all loud and hard up here
it's the spookiest day of the dead
this side of yesterday.
ALL Saint's Day.
secret spirits,
and hyperglycemic candy overload.
or maybe, it would've been,
but the woods has it's hard-styles too.
like NO trickery treaters marching into the haunted woods
for a little bag of goodies.
which really just means more sweetness for me.
and that's all well and good, ninjas-
but if you weren't here for the Samhain hottness yesterday,
then your bellyhole wasn't privvy
to this harvesty, hollowed, hallow's evening hard-skinned gourd,
nor the beginnings of the darker seasons up here
in the epic excellence of the woodsly goodness.
however,
if there's a teleport nearby, you should definitely check this:
boo-ya!
and that boo is for ghosts an' sh!t, ya?
you know what that is?
baked stuffed acorn squash!
yes indeed.
that's wild rice shallot stuffing with sunflower seeds,
drizzled with a crucial compote
of crushed, cooked cranberry sauce.
and seven-spud mashed potatoes.
that's seven lucky kinds of local lumpers,
skins-on homeboy-style masher-uppers,
aaaaaand maple-sweetened cornbread.
all from scratch, friends.
i'd give you the recipe,
but i don't use 'em.
ooooh, sh!t!!
real talk,
F* your A* if you don't think that looks good.
...because you're wrong.
good food is essential to a dinner party.
otherwise,
especially in the absence of booze,
it's just a bunch of hungry people staring at each other.
word up.
and we can't have that kind of weak sauce, can we?
of course not,
what are we?
A*-holes?
c'mon.
cyle and casey came by,
to gnosh up on some celebratory squash and sauce,
and stayed for dessert too.
(apple crisp, with double-oat streusel topping, of course)
and so did our buddy jim.
but that wasn't it, either.
i told you mutha-flippers,
it was a samhain barbarian blaze.
which means that hot fire was compulsory...

flame on, kids.
that's some perfect evening business right there.
and on a crystal-clear night.
stars, smoke, light, dark, woods, leaves...
pretty much everything awesome in one place.

jim even made a mask.
that's hallowe'en spirit, y'all.
you're never too old for THAT.
...and the embers died down,

and the woodstove got hotter,
and the coziness of the fortress got even cozier.
a small cadre of elite enjoyers.
active participants in the really realness.
that's Folk Life;
there hasn't ever been a whole lot of folks who can hang out.
but the ones who can?
yeah.
worthy warrior poetry.
so good.
all treats, all the time.
no tricks.
happy november, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....