It's figureoutable

Here's a picture I took on my walk this morning



There's a large amount of snow on the ground here. We got perhaps 10 inches last night and this morning. I rather enjoy it, but even I'm getting close to my limit...

Here are some more snow pics:

That is the question.

I'm sure it's been asked many times before. In fact something like 383,000 times according to google.

But since my blog went on technological hiatus for a few weeks, I'm wondering if I (or anyone else) missed it.

I got asked about it a couple of times. So maybe.

Maybe I'll post more regularly once I get less busy.

In a month or two.

Or three.

or 18.

Doesn't Sally look HAPPY!?


There is a LARGE amount of snow here. Lots. A buttload. And as you can see, it's still snowing.

Here's a bigger version of the pic

Kinda cool:

If Larry Craig lived in the other "I" state he could get married!

My loving wife tells me that good ol' Larry is already married... for now. But maybe down the road when he recognizes who he really is, he can move to Iowa and be truly happy.

I hope so.

I should probably be less snippy about this, because I am really excited about the Iowa ruling. But I couldn't resist a little jab at our Larry.

Katala is helping me with the script for A Midsummer Night's Dream

Dungeness

You smile, spying on the menu the name of that premium crab;
I wonder if you’re recalling a day on that eponymous spit of sand,
trailing elbow and wrist like a Pope’s wave into the northern Pacific,
recalling the journey into my red and gray coat. It began as a rattle trap
mirror of school bus rides we had been certain were left at home –
reflected into our first days of college. The orientation trip,

that slipped for me, as the bus disgorged us, toward a trip
of disorientation, as one imagined rival wondered if crab
was named for spit, or the reverse and you smiled. But my home –
all manicured lawns and tidy fences, free of crab and ocean sand –
left me at sea, casting for a drifting fact. One quick debit, one new trap
to avoid. Wary, I slunk behind you toward the yawning Pacific

down a slick, muddy path. You marched ahead, neck swiveling, Pacific
surf framing your dusty hair, eyes searching past each turn. I saw you trip,
wished I had been the one to catch you, elbow and wrist, trap
you in a small obligation. Instead I could only listen to you crab
lightly about roots and rocks, then delight as shoes touched sand.
We scattered across the rocky beach. My eyes continued to home

on you, roaming to flotsam, a skipping-rock, but always finding home
in the curls at the nape of your neck – the great, gray Pacific
only a diversion. And so, when the onshore wind blew cold sand
around us, only I saw your shoulders shiver, somehow didn’t trip
rushing to offer you my red and gray coat, sidling in like a crab,
draping your shoulders. This day-long moment captured in the trap

of a snapshot I wouldn’t see for a decade, having fallen into a trap
of my own: the habit of hurling my heart into home after rickety home
each built for two, never other than one and one. I, the hermit crab,
ready, stalk-mounted eyes swiveling, to abandon each shell, ignoring pacific
pleas, quietly summarizing tallied debits always sufficient to trip
the exit switch, retaining only coarse grains of incident, grit to sand

my self-image bloody. Eventually grain against grain ground aging sand
memories to fine powder, smoothing, soothing – releasing the trap.
Only then, surface prepared like raw wood for varnish, did you trip
the recollection of that red and gray coat. A local call, your new home
to mine, instant recognition, joint experience of touching the Pacific,
and a first date 11 years after we met. Neither of us ordered crab.

Instead we poured out old stories like sand from shoe, found a new home
in the shell of our history. A welcome trap, breadth and depth of the Pacific
before us, baited with crab, an ocean spit and the chronicles of a decade-long trip.