SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
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Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Sunday, Dec. 08, 2002 @ 12:13 am
Brand New Neighbour



Everything is so acute right now. Four hours of sleep left me hypersensitive to light, sounds, textures... tastes...

It was the micro dinner/dance last night. Many gin-n-tonics later... shaking it up on the dance floor in my only heeled shoes I own.. eventually just one cute and flirty grad student and me left on the floor (with Great Big Sea too, of course) while the clean-up crew was stacking chairs. Good times with the old Friday Night crew.. before I became cool and only drank with work people on Fridays. Eventually to the Pit for one last drink and to get hit on by stumbing-drunk first year homies. "Heeey ladies! What's the occasion? Loooooooookin' fiiiiiiine. We're sooooo drunk!"

Way to go. Now we really want in your pants.

Anyhow, so it's 4am before I get home to sleep and the sheep are expecting breakies at 8am.

The morning is misty. Foggy. Silent. Frozen. There's the silouhette of the ducks exercising their wings while perched on the paddock fence. The puffs of steam from the breathing of the ewes. The murmuring cry from the 24 hour old baby next door. Rattle of dog collars.

I'm kneeling in a corner of a pen with a lamb on my lap. The bottle is perfectly warm. He squirms. He sucks on my nose. He sucks on the bottle and flings it over the side of my face. He shoves his cloven hoof against my bellybutton ring - it burns with pain even through the thick coveralls. Then he drinks. And his body melts into me. And the milk begins to dry on my face.

It's exams, so I took over the avian chores to let the volunteers study. I'd forgotten how much I love working with the birds. Week-old chicks that snuggle into your hand and look up at you in wonder. Holding an adult quail in the aviary and then letting it flyyyyyyy high out of your hand. Every tiny egg perfect in it's own way.

Soon it's 5pm. Layers of sweat, barley dust, chicken dust, milk and sawdust on my face. Itchy everywhere. But still, everything is so clear and sharp. I go to Miss S's to watch a rented movie and wait for her wonder appliance to serve us fresh crusty brown bread with marmalade.

And I drive home through the fog that's settling down again. I'm filling up with gas (63.9 cents cheap!) in a trance, the smell of the fuel stoning me. The man at the next pump is staring at me. I stare back at him. Flash. I'm invisible. In the fog I sublime.


Roots | Shoots