post-Sweden: some rarely blogged sincerity

Sweden appealed to all the quiet peace in me. Granted, 'the public' may not be aware but this part is just as strong as any other inside, and provides at least as much happiness as Entertainer D. So many things reminded me of my dear little Gramma Hilma, especially people's twinkles. And there's water and things to explore everywhere; better yet, much of the exploration is near or via water. We found shire-likes, moss everywhere, and a kind of tree we're calling a willow birch (note: and watch out, willow birches, because you are ear-marked as my ideal tree to give birth against, Viking style...though I don't think anyone thinks I'm serious, give me half a chance to slip off and do it old school, and I'm out). Even the rocks are smooth and rounded in their craggliness, kind of like giant old people faces peeking out of the ground to go snuggle into while they tell you how there's really nothing to ever worry about, it'll all be okay.

So for ten days I lived with music being made around me one way or another, light in the sky that moved from a gray petulant enough to make pink sexy to a golden layer gently laying over the horizon in hours typically black, and a fairly perpetual reassurance from the water, though I don't know what it'd say..."I'm right here, you will not dehydrate, and if need be, just jump in me. I'll take you...away." Maybe not. But it's soothing anyway, feeling it close by. And until you've been dancing with the swirling fallen leaves (not that I have since I was little either), don't knock my dippy love of this stuff. M'kay?

Walking in the woods drummed out my favorite little verse from when I was 15, by Lord Byron (slightly edited):

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
Rapture on the lonely shore,
Society, where none intrudes;
By the deep Sea, and Music in its roar,
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

(That's where I tend to stop, but it continues, so in the interest of moderate accuracy...)

From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

But what's to conceal? Strip down, man! (Because you're not fooling anyone. We've been totally onto you for some time now.)

It was extra perfect also that on our accidentally-themed day of death, following the Bronze Age Burial and visiting general graves and one specifically, as we walked through mist along the road to a rune stone, the little flowers Gramma would eat with us on walks sprouted up in our path. So we nibbled on a few of them, realized we couldn't make out the characters on the stone, and rather than think it was one of the duller inscriptions, J made up something dazzlingly gory. This, all, I loved.

For these reasons and more, it was not easy to leave. (Although I'm fairly sure my feelings would be different were it winter.)

mine are a proud and notably large-headed people

Yesterday before lunch I was so tired I was shaking a little, but per usual, some of us in our office feel the summer must be enjoyed. In a sort of beached whale version of a flash, I motioned for a Nap in The Park. Yay! Nap! Sleepy time!

We kerthunked ourselves down in the grass. As exhaustion had turtled my judgement, I'd overlooked that I was there with MB which = we will be perpetually talking. I think he'd just finished telling me the title of my autobiography should be Terrifying and Kind of Attractive: the DM story. Better would be if HE writes these stories, as his perspective on The Terror would be entertaining, at least in a sadistic sense. But I digress...

MB'd said earlier how he likes bald babies, and thinks they should stay that way much longer - like until they're eight at least. The catalyst of this thought train was this wobbly baby, a little over a year old. It's head was bald, and impressively sized. Later, MB starts talking in this high-pitched friendly voice. What!? Friendly? So I look up and over. The target was spotted, and it had its mother along.

MB: "Hey there. Come say hi?"
Giant-headed Baby: [Tip of tongue protrudes; stares blankly.] (This kid has a great future as a poker player.)
MB: "Although I can understand, Mom's pretty good too, probably."
GhB: [Lets go of mother's knees and reaches out, trying to take a step towards us but is being foiled again by that clever grass stuff; resumes wobbling, worriedly reaches for mother's knees.*]
GhB's MOTHER: "You look more like her parents than I do."
my ovum: Reinforce the walls! We will not be overtaken! Go not lightly into that dark night!
MB: "Ya, especially this one. [Gestures at me. Then whispers over at me,...] 'I mean, look at the size of that head.'"
GhB's Mother: "Are you Swedish?"
me: "Why, yes I am."
GhB's Mothers: "Her father is Swedish. His head is huge, too. He looks like you. [Pause.] I'm Portuguese."
me: "Ooo, what a cool mix."
MB: "That is awesome that your people are renowned for huge heads."
me: "Ya. And some other stuff." [Norseman death squint.]

*We should make knee puppets for moms to wear. Sure, it sounds cray-cray but studies will back me up. As will lonely knees.

powerful deli man

We were on our way to see Paprika and I went into some deli to get a juice (V8, long may it live). The guy behind the counter says, "You are a princess, the most beautiful princess."

"Thanks."

"No, no, miss. You really are. You ARE a very, very beautiful princess."

Apparently he has that kind of authority. So, hey, yay for me. I didn't have to buy it or marry for it. I am titled. Va-voom. My principality probably includes the Angelika Theater, and expands to I know not where. Next week I'll go back for a root beer and find out.

vague insult of chickens

We're ordering breakfast. My bud wanted eggs. I offered him mine, like my ovum.

S: "Do you think you could make an omelet with them?"
me: "I hope so. If chickens can..."
S: "I wonder. But I think I'm going to puke."