I got so absorbed with the duck story, I completely forgot to tell you I’ve accepted my non-ability to draw comics. It’s okay, not everybody is good at everything. I’ll leave drawing to the pros. Tortaluga, thank you for believing in me.
I am concentrating on “sculpture” these days, and am happily (and finally - been wanting to do this for a loooong time) building little mini Squibbits. What? What’s a Squibbit? Okay. Here’s a Squibbit.
I went to my favorite craft store with a friend. I explained to her what I wanted to do. She suggested a bunch of different materials and was very patient. I settled on a few possibilities and am currently experimenting. Results look promising.
There are a couple for you in the making, Brig, I’ll let you know as soon as they’re in the mail. If only I had a camera, I could post pics of them. Someday, perhaps.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Ducks. Happiness.
This is what I love to do every time El Daddo in law invites us to the cottage. Ducks love me.I know, you're not supposed to feed the ducks.
But they're out there, in their secret lairs, with their surveillance system and their radar perfectly adjusted, and they wait in silence. You walk out to the water. You stand on the dock, smiling contently. You think "Ahhh. Now that's calm if I've ever seen it." Then the jetskis come by at one thousand miles an hour, disturbing the mirror-like surface of the lake and you pretend they're not there. You think “Ahhh. What calm and peace. Fuck you, over-tanned loud holiday people, and the jetskis you rode in on.”
You are absorbed by the tiny baby fishies, curious and eager. They are cute. They swim around and shake about. You think “Cool. Tiny fishies.” You remember the time you went to that lake with all the distant relatives you didn't know at all, and you ended up having a great time observing the fishies swim above the white dishcloth four of you held taut in the water, standing so still it hurt.
You are too busy contemplating the horizon and ignoring the jetskis. You dip a toe in the water and immediately want to throw yourself in there, clothes and all. Too bad you're still holding your luggage.
And that, Multitude of Avid Fans, is when the ducks commence Scenario Alpha, dubbed Operation Hot Dog Bun.
You were an easy target, contemplating and wading about in your memories. The short antennae, aptly concealed in the water plants scattered about the reeds, were extended the minute you walked to the waterfront. The satellite relayed your position with pinpoint accuracy and the signal was transmitted all the way from headquarters in a split second.
« There she is. We’ve got her, Commander. Teams Charlie and Tango move now now now!»
And they quickly and efficiently put on their cute masks, and climb inside their capsules. They materialize right in the corner of your eye. You put your luggage down. Someone throws a hot dog bun at you. It’s all part of a well-choreographed routine.
But they're out there, in their secret lairs, with their surveillance system and their radar perfectly adjusted, and they wait in silence. You walk out to the water. You stand on the dock, smiling contently. You think "Ahhh. Now that's calm if I've ever seen it." Then the jetskis come by at one thousand miles an hour, disturbing the mirror-like surface of the lake and you pretend they're not there. You think “Ahhh. What calm and peace. Fuck you, over-tanned loud holiday people, and the jetskis you rode in on.”
You are absorbed by the tiny baby fishies, curious and eager. They are cute. They swim around and shake about. You think “Cool. Tiny fishies.” You remember the time you went to that lake with all the distant relatives you didn't know at all, and you ended up having a great time observing the fishies swim above the white dishcloth four of you held taut in the water, standing so still it hurt.
You are too busy contemplating the horizon and ignoring the jetskis. You dip a toe in the water and immediately want to throw yourself in there, clothes and all. Too bad you're still holding your luggage.
And that, Multitude of Avid Fans, is when the ducks commence Scenario Alpha, dubbed Operation Hot Dog Bun.
You were an easy target, contemplating and wading about in your memories. The short antennae, aptly concealed in the water plants scattered about the reeds, were extended the minute you walked to the waterfront. The satellite relayed your position with pinpoint accuracy and the signal was transmitted all the way from headquarters in a split second.
« There she is. We’ve got her, Commander. Teams Charlie and Tango move now now now!»
And they quickly and efficiently put on their cute masks, and climb inside their capsules. They materialize right in the corner of your eye. You put your luggage down. Someone throws a hot dog bun at you. It’s all part of a well-choreographed routine.
And as you sit in the grass, fourteen ducks, small and old, fat and young, waddle your way, and climb on your thighs, cocking their heads, not to lose sight of the Revered Hot Dog Bun of Yumminess, and you laugh. You’ve not been this happy in a long time.
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