Don't look now, there's something really kinky in your silverware drawer...

The other morning I when I was doing laundry, I found a plastic bag at the bottom of my closet containing a roll of duct tape, a turkey baster, and some rags. I was momentarily freaked out by the discovery--what kind of twisted perversity was this? Then I recognized the smell of motor oil and brake fluid emanating from the rags and realized that this was a legitimate, unperverted assortment of items that had been used when my friend helped me work on my car a few months ago. Whew. That was a bit of a scare, though: not only can I not imagine (I'm trying very hard not to, believe me) what kind of lewdness you can inflict upon another person with a turkey baster, I couldn't imagine why whoever was inflicting such lewdness upon another person with a turkey baster would leave it in my closet afterward. Creeped-out shivering commenced.

Yes, that's a chick working on a car during WW II, before the menfolk came home and she had to go back to vacuuming and making cupcakes.

I will now ruin the comedic value of this anecdote by telling you what automotive application the turkey baster actually served: refilling the cells of my battery with water. And the duct tape helped me discover that there was indeed a big tear in my air intake hose that was causing my car to lose so much power: I covered what looked like a tear in the hose with the tape and then started my car again to see if the problem was resolved. It was. I could have left it all taped up like that and saved myself quite a lot of money (dealership-only part: $93) but I knew it would wear out again at some point and I wanted to save myself the hassle. Not to mention that we were already covered in grime from working on my car all day, so it seemed like an opportune moment to change it.

I have to say that I derive a large amount of satisfaction from playing with mechanical things and getting dirty. Quite simply, I'm happiest when I'm working with my hands--one of the reasons I enjoy archaeology so much. Besides, there's something really childishly glee-inducing about covering yourself in black gunk in the process. While this is extremely belated, I do need to send out a big public thank you to Ciro for all his help that day. I couldn't have done it without him. He did all the hardest chores, like changing the spark plugs and adding water to the battery (things filled with acid scare me). I'm sure he did much more than that, but I can't remember everything we did that day. I can, however, claim responsibility for taking off the old intake hose and putting on the new one all by myself. Mostly. This may sound like a simple procedure (it should have been!), but that air hose was one convoluted and cantankerous piece of black rubber. I believe at one point both Ciro and I were wrestling with it simultaneously and practically crawling on top of the engine block trying to maneuver it into place.

Gee, isn't blogging fun, kids? Segueing from an aberrant use of kitchen utensils to home car repair in 100 words or fewer is quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself. Thank you, life, for providing such a rich and neverending stream of absurdities to fuel my literary aspirations, small as they are.

For those of you who don't quite get how the blue bottle at the top of the page ties in with today's story-- it doesn't. I couldn't find anything (at least nothing decent) to illustrate this post the way I wanted to, so I thought I would treat you to this gorgeous drawing by my dear friend Wendy. She drew that with colored pencils. Colored pencils!! Yes, she's extremely talented, and you can look at more of her stuff here. There is also a lot of really good stuff is on her blog, especially since you can see the works as they progress through all their stages. Check it out!

Never do a Google image search for the word "Hot" (what was I thinking?)

Most of the people where I live are overjoyed that summer has finally arrived in all of its sweltering glory. As you can tell by my choice of adjectives, I'm not as happy about it. I prefer a cool breeze and some nice clouds. Besides, now I can't go to the beach because it's one long traffic jam for miles and miles before you get there. Not to mention that my enjoyment of the grand outdoors is greatly diminished by the presence of teeming hordes of human beings in various stages of undress. This really isn't my main gripe, however; I haven't been going to the beach as much as I used to during the past few years anyway--I think I'm just miffed because now the option is out should I decide I do want to go--what really drives me to swear that I'm moving to the Pacific Northwest once and for all is the heat.

I simply do not like being hot. Dry heat, humid heat--it all makes me equally cranky. Heat makes me feel foggy-headed and listless and sullen. I get irritable. Cold I can deal with; you can nearly always put more layers on or find a fireplace or someone to cuddle with or drink vodka or something. But when it's hot there are only so many clothes you can take off without getting arrested, and then if it's still hot there's nothing left you can do to alleviate the misery. I do not have air conditioning, and while my ceiling fans do provide a bit of relief, they only keep me cool if I'm absolutely still. The moment I expend the tiniest amount of energy or lift one toe off the floor I get all sweaty. I took a shower this afternoon but I already feel sticky and nasty all over again. If I weren't such a tree-hugging hippie-type I would take five cold showers a day, but we've been experiencing a prolonged drought down here. To be truthful, my conscience wouldn't allow me to waste that much water no matter what the rainfall levels were like.

It was so hot today that if I spoke on the phone to someone longer than about a minute the crease of my elbow started to sweat profusely. My elbow!! It was so hot that I put in my contacts because I just couldn't stand to have my glasses weighing on my face anymore. It was so hot that the cat was sleeping in the bathtub. It was so hot that I've been pretty much naked all day (except when I went outside; I'm no exhibitionist). It's still so hot this late in the evening that I'm contemplating my second visit of the day to the new popsicle shop in my neighborhood.


Two positive things I've managed to acknowledge about the heat: my clothes dried astoundingly quickly when hung up to dry, and those popsicles are utterly delicious, cool you down nicely, and are good for you, too. I think I'll try the cucumber chili one next time...

Dressing, Watermelon, Chaos*

Having noticed that my last post is only two days shy of being one month old, I'm freshly determined to write more than once per week. Maybe even twice. Definitely more than once a month! And if I don't have anything to say, I will find somebody who does.

I've been reading again, which makes me extremely happy. It dawned on me about six weeks ago that I hadn't had a good book in my life for over two months, maybe even three; I have no sense of time. That's unheard of in my world. Not that I have no sense of time--that's well documented--the not reading thing. What's more, I realized that this caused me an unexpected amount of grief. It is absolutely no exaggeration to say it approached a physical longing; I felt a real, tangible hunger to read in almost the exact same way you feel hungry for good food. It hurt.

I fixed it immediately by buying another Haruki Murakami novel with the gift card I had gotten for my birthday. It was so good that I had re-read the entire thing at least twice by the time I got to the last page. It was bleak and beautiful and rich and absurd and otherworldly. The kind of book that fills you with joy even if the subject is stark and melancholy. The kind of book that makes you feel orphaned and inconsolable when it ends. It's called Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, and it's full of solemn mystical beasts, mafia-type thugs, evil-minded subterranean creatures, librarians, information thieves, and four main characters whose names you never learn.

Try some:

Every last thing about this elevator was worlds apart from the cheap die-cut job in my apartment building, scarcely one notch up the evolutionary scale from a well bucket. You'd never believe the two pieces of machinery had the same name and the same purpose. The two were pushing the outer limits conceivable as elevators. ...

... I stood in that hermetically sealed vault for what seemed an eternity. The doors showed no sign of ever opening. Stationary in unending silence, a still life: Man in Elevator.

this is the main character singing a Russian folksong he learned as a child:

I didn't know any more of the lyrics, so I made some up: Everyone's gathered around the fire--the pechka--when a knock comes at the door and Father goes to inquire, and there's a reindeer standing on wounded feet, saying, "I'm hungry, give me something to eat"; so they feed it canned peaches. In the end, everyone's sitting around the stove, singing along.

and one more setting:

After three days of snow appears a sudden sky of clarity. Rays of sun spill a blinding glare upon the frozen white Town. I hear snow falling from branches everywhere. I stay indoors and draw the curtains against the light, but I cannot escape. The ice-encrusted Town refracts like a huge, many-faceted jewel, sending knives of light to stab my eyes.

There is so much more, and of course I can't possibly convey the soul and beauty of the book in a few short excerpts. But it is difficult to choose even this much to share --there is so little I can quote without giving away integral elements of the story. What I can do for you is suggest that you hie yourself to a library or bookstore and read some Murakami yourself. The Elephant Vanishes is a good place to start--a collection of short stories to test the waters and see if they please you.

*The title of chapter 11
••all photos © David J. Nightingale 2003-09••

I just really like this

I don't think anyone lives in it. If you want to know more, go here.