Backtalk to Gillz's Declaration

I just wrote you the most wonderful post about why I think Kingsolver wrote a Mormon culture novel without God at its center. And I lost it. I brilliantly and profoundly showed how she's painted our guilt and zealous judging habits so perfectly (Whew. Lots of worthless adjectives in that sentence). And in the end, she makes her audience realize that we can't walk around in our own black pools of guilt or manufacture our own pain, because real honest pain is going to back hand us anyway. And if we carry our shame and our nation's shame around our necks like albatross, we'll drown before the real stuff even gets to us. I had great examples, but since they were both from "R" rated movies, I'm sure I subconsciously deleted it to save your innocence. Dang.

And, yes, major faux pas about Jude Law. It's a good thing you're my most tolerant side kick. Nick Drake is nice because he reminds me of Keats, and Eric Clapton, because he makes me feel safe--An annoying need I have.

Speaking of faux pas, one never asks what to wear to a rodeo, but if one were to ask, then "denim or denim" would be appropriate. I, myself, am wearing black hat (via Bob Dylan), sequined jacket, and red/gold boots.

The last time I sat with non-rodeo people was the night Brian and Emily Pew came along to the Blackfoot fair rodeo. Emily had a fit when the first guy got bucked off his horse before the 8 second buzzer and received "no score," and the next guy pulled a 75. "How fair is that?" she yells, using that wide gesture thing she does with her arm. I looked around to see if any of my father's old cowboy compadres were sitting close as I hung onto her leg to keep her from stomping down to rail on the judges. (I miss that girl. Maybe you should watch the movie 8 Seconds before you come up.) It turned out a fun night, because they really weren't faking their ignorance . . . nor their curiosity--then they left me alone to keep scores as Brian consumed several Tiger Paws with honey butter, cheese covered chips, and swigged gallons of Diet Coke. But, later when they wanted to see the Tiniest Woman in the World, I stood firm "I'm not going in," I said. "No one else is even in there, so you'll be standing right in front of her, and what will you say? 'Geez, lady, you sure got a bum deal in life, but you're at least making money on it?'" When they came out, they did say she looked very sad and wanted to rename it: The Saddest Woman in the World. Fun night though. Good memory.

If you come on Monday, and if we're lucky, some guitar players may group on the street and play some songs. In the mountains, all I want is to sit on a rock by the Snake River, watch the hawks, and let the pines and river spray clean my head out.