Amends

Wife and I went out tonight, a rarity these days for scheduling and financial reasons. It was nice to be with her again. To regain an old and lovely vision.
I wanted to share something beautiful. After getting gently and rightfully scolded for my language, I thought it would be a good idea to post something uplifting. What I had in mind were three songs by the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. They're not a new band, which means they have a better than average shot at being good. And they are.

I tried to post the songs via Youtube, but like the band I'm not new either, so my technological savvy wavers. The best I can do is recommend you check them out for yourselves. If you like, listen to them in this order: Perpetual Continuum, Paul's Dance, Salty Bean Fumble. The first is not my favorite, but is a pretty good introduction to the band. The second is for change of pace, and the third is just fun.

The more life I live, I find healing in music, turning to it more and more as one turns to church, to nature. There is a reason old people listen to mellow music. Their own experiential noise is plenty.

Finally, to not leave this post pictorially bare, I will go against my previous statement and show three animal shots.

I gave this buxom toad to the kids two days ago. They took it with them to the babysitter's house, where they lost it.

I love this moth. The frayed wings' edges are from the lizard I caught that nipped off the tips.

You can just see its head, but this is the offending lizard. After seeing it harmlessly bite my finger, Claire insisted we try to get it to bite her nose.

Bloated Lizards and the Missing Greg Fox

OK, Since Jaren W. just called me a "Ding Dong," I have to post our whole e-mail conversation just to set this record straight. It went something like this: "Hi Jaren and Family, How are you? I wish I could come and help you move because that's going to be so hard in the heat. I'm so sorry you have to go through that. I would love to come and help out your whole family." He answered: "Work today was a boon. Directly into my receptive hands wandered a beautiful, huge orange moth, a slender green katydid, a nearly dead female stag beetle, and a small striped lizard.
Bloated,
JW"

I answered, "A bloated lizard? You must post this! The sense detail is almost overwhelming."

He answered, "You ding dong. The lizard isn't bloated. That was my closing, like sincerely, but in this case I said bloated."

Now, I ask all bloggers on this site how I'm supposed to know he was "bloated"? (Don't answer that.) And do you think this is a heat reaction as he prepares for Grad. school? The Nile Virus? Or hysteria from eating live frogs? (I still love the colors and imagery in his e-mail, in spite of the missing "bloated lizard." That fool can write.)

By the way, here's some pure gossip. Kimberly's (Greg Fox's friend) roommate came into the WC today and told us Greg is alive and well and busy, which is very different from turning his back and completely ignoring us, right? Greeeeeeegory, where are yoooooou, Little Brother. We miss you. And a line or two here and there wouldn't kill you.

an interlude of babies and living room tents

I don't mean to break the rhythm we have going in this blog, or take away from what Sharon's going through. It's just......I found my USB cord for my camera and.....well.....I want to post some pictures. Sorry to break ranks here.

It all started with JW. I thought that Jaren and SweetWife were the only married grown up couple in modern society that would want to put up a tent in their living room with me (at 2 in the morning), but to my extreme amazement, and I'm sure Sharon's as well, I suddenly found myself in another grown married up people's apartment (Jen's) and found myself putting up another tent in another living room. This time in broad daylight.

As if their apartment was far too big, or, perhaps because they needed a little time away from their gangly and irresponsible week-long houseguest who kept eating all their cereal, here is where they remained for the rest of my visit.

Also during my visit to Jen's, we took Olivia to a petting zoo where we ran into a few wildly dressed chickens and birds that Jen (not ME, but JEN) decided represented Sharon very well. While Olivia stared with her mouth open at goats and roosters, Jen pointed out birds that looked like Sharon and I proceeded to take pictures of them, threatening to post them here, which I have done, as you can see. I didn't have too much to say, having ranted and raved all of the past two weeks, but here are some pictures of old friends and their babies that some of you might care to see. Cheers, adios. I'm going for a bike ride.

This is me infilrating good culture into Jen's Olivia while she's still young and malleable. Legos AND wookiees in one solid go.
Notice how Henrietta's hair began with Em's hair and then drifted suddenly and boldly into Brian's, making her look like they dyed the tips. Really really funny and bizarre. Only for a Pew's child would I believe it.
Trev's Carter, 6 mo.
Em and Brian's Henrietta (Esme Gertrude Petunia), 10 mo.
Jen's Libby, 16 mo.

"There are places I remember/ Some have gone and some have changed . . ."

Oh, Joe, you're right. I forgot. We breathed and walked and ate and slept in the same house! (Whoa, for all you DLMs--Dirty Little Minds--we didn't live there at the same time.) I loved that house with all its little artistic touches left over from your fam.-even the color is the same as my farm house now--the wood floors, pedestal sink, wooden shutters. My first house!
Nothing could have pulled me from that little Birch street heaven except inheriting an instant family of five extra children along with a husband whom I couldn't fit in (or with or around . . . but we won't go there today). Though I'm not complaining about the "instant children" part; how wonderful to inherit three extra sons without the . . . uhhh . . . 3 x 9 equals ? one heck of a lot of pregnant days (See Jaren? That GRE Math is gonna take me down). But I do love my children.
Megan had a dream, and in the dream she owned a big house in another country, but she didn't know where. She walked out the back door and kept walking through pine trees. But before she got through the trees, she heard laughing and singing; then the trees opened up into a grassy place where a little cabin sat by a creek. And she realized that this was her mother's house. The whole meadow was filled with children--all dressed in white--dancing and playing. And in the dream, she couldn't stop smiling.
I said, "Sure, you're making that up, Girl; . . . and was Keith Urban there, by any chance, anywhere?" (or did you see a gallant Scottish man?) But, she swears by this dream. "And, no, Mom, there were no men anywhere. You were the only grown-up [questionable]. You were showing a little boy some fish in a Japanese-like rock pool. And he was laughing and laughing."
And, JW, I believe it was in JG's house that I last slept a full night's sleep. This insomnia is annoying. Grrrrr . . .

"A bee-loud glade"

"For I shall have some peace there for peace comes dropping slow"

When I flew to Ireland for the first time, I wanted to see Yeat's Isle of Innisfree. I heard that if you could recite the whole poem, the barkeep gave you a large mug of beer--not, of course, that I would ever , . . . you know.

Just the name itself is poetry--"Inn- is- free." But, another director--who shall remain nameless--said we must hurry, didn't have time, Let's race through Ireland quickly, didn't want to see the squalor and poverty. Get to Scotland where we could buy lots of plaid to give away to relatives at Christmas (I don't have relatives who like plaid anything--not even plaid headbands made out of hippies.)

But, we had a Scottish bus driver who never missed the smallest tension on this trip. He loved drama of all kinds, and he whispered to me as I sulked my way onto the bus, "Don't you worry now, Cheron; I be getting you there."

And, he did. That sly hunk of a man drove into a nunnery, praising its antiquity and naming each tree we passed, then, he quickly pulled to the back of the convent and there--right smack in front of us--was the Isle of Innisfree, lying like a huge green seaweed lady, unconnected to either water or land, with the mist barely lifting. We could hear pots and pans rattling in the Convent kitchen, and the director saw he'd been tricked as the Scotsman made a great deal out of checking the back tires. Bless his trickster heart.

"Well, now that we're here," one-who-is-nameless said. "Let's have Sis Papworth (I think that was my name then--I've had so many it's often hard to keep track: tusk tusk.) tell us about William Butler Yeats.

I glowed. I beamed out sunlight. I walked to the shore barely touching the ground. Pure white adrenaline shot through my frontal brain lobe as I began to uncover and thus convert 28 students to Mr. W. B. Yeats, himself. Such excitement over sharing the pocket of my brain where I store Yeats along with Keats and other great poets ( I tend toward those who die young upon the ashes of their talents) can't be described. I have no words for the clean exchange of innocent beauty--in all its abstractness.

I recited the poem and others. I painted his portrait and his life with words. I lowered my voice as I spoke of the epitaph on his grave: "Horseman pass by." When I finished, and slowly emerged from my transcendental (slightly LSD flashback-like) state and looked around, my faith in students who take trips to Europe once again dropped like a dead fish.

But, . . . the Scotsman . . . that bus driving Scot stood still, transfixed, staring at me as of I were an angel from heaven or a mermaid crossed over from the green island. He walked through the students, around the other directors, and took hold of my hand. "That was a thing of beauty, Cheron, and I want to thank thee from the bottom of my heart for such a gift."

That's when I fell in love with all Scottish men. At least, anyway, the ones who don't have four letter, one word vocabularies.

"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions."

I don't know why I have to hang onto the people in my life by their hair, screaming like a madwoman--even if they appreciated it, which they don't, I sweat blood when I don't have to.

When I was younger, I was much more brave and selfish. But now I think I'm Mother Teresa. Ugh. Even in the temple, we sit on opposite sides from our ? and it's very clear that we travel our paths alone--individually.

At the same time, I'm lecturing JW about embracing helplessness and riding with the flow, man, I'm loading my 22 Magnum pistol to take out a few incompetent doctors, whom, I'm sure the world would be far better off without.

Can we help each other in our various pain? I've come to the conclusion that we can--but only by just being there. Jaren calls within seconds of my phone conversation with an idiot doctor (I'm really not being unkind--he is a true Idiot) and calms me down. JG drops into my office as I'm about to leave for the mountains with Beau, lets me complain, reminds me I'm strong; and yes I'm a little worried, but I'm hoping fishing and pine trees will do what we thought the medical profession could do. And why not? Mountain air has often restored my own sanity to at least a level that allows me to function.

But, as Didion says, "We deceive ourselves on all counts. It's always I." Who is this mountain trip really for?

I love my friends.

Zen and the Art of ? . . . Breathing. (G for gusher)

My good friend, Emily, just asked me for validation; she's having a hard time, a confusing time. And when she gets confused, she gets aaaaaaanngry. But, instead of offering support, I yelled at her. Well, not really yelled, but I basically said, I can't validate you; I have to save all my validations for myself right now. Selfishness can squeeze you up like a blow snake squeezes the life out of a rabbit. Though validations may be pretty much a waste of time, since Em knows I love her, and life happens to you anyway. This is a complicated little piece of eternity, isn't it? Some days I'm just glad I'm breathing.

Yesterday, at the parade, someone bought me a snake hat made out of balloons. Bright red and orange. The snake's tongue stuck out two feet from my head and bopped up and down when I walked.

I knew if I strolled around Porter Park wearing this balloon hat and danced in the parade (because no one else was dancing, but Meg pulled me back and wouldn't allow it, since I just turned 60, she said, she said) and if I screamed at the bull riding at the rodeo later, then ooood and wowed the stupid fireworks, I might forget that we had just dragged Beau to a doctor. And they put in in the Behavioral Center.

Quite a trip. Quite a trip. Sorry, but I'm going to gush all the emotion--no, actually only 1/100th of the emotion from the night before, so it's out of me, so I can kick it along the sidewalk, or throw it into the river, or flush it all down the toilet. Beware J.J.J. Beware.

Meg and I pace, while Beau sits with his arms crossed, still determined he doesn't need to be here. As soon as this Rexburg doctor opens the door, I ask one of the silliest questions ever. "Are you LDS?" I throw at him before he even sits down on his stupid round stool. "Because we've been praying our heads off that a doctor somewhere, somehow will listen to us, hear us, because they're not listening: we've been to five Emergency rooms over the last six months, and we don't know what to do. We think my son's in the beginning stages of schizophrenia."

And Beau sits back--leaning his head against the window, and after months of fighting, he--finally--lets me talk.

And so I told Mr. Robot (who holds the keys to locked down units, where, maybe, Beau might get the right diagnosis?) about some of the voices: one told Beau to meet her at a restaurant in San Francisco. "Go in and order, Beau; I'll be right there to pay for it." The waiter shows him to a booth by the windows, when the voice in his head says, "Beau, I can't come in the door. It's too dangerous." And Beau looks up to see two men in gray suits getting out of a BMW in the financial district of SF. "But, don't worry, Beau. The man at the end of the counter, wearing the blue shirt, is going to pay for your food." Beau approaches the man and whispers: "Are you the one who's going to pay for the meal?" The man keeps eating, looking down at his plate. Then, Beau tells me over the phone, "But, I realize, Mom, he can't look up at me, or he's going to tip them off."

"WHO THE HELL IS THEM, Beau?" Long pauses--as I realize I've got to calm down. I've got to get him home because these nightmare dayscapes are cycling closer together now. But I'm screaming into the phone, trying to reach through and grab his mind as its flying in pieces all over SF, like James' brownies hitting the fan. But, it's not like he knows who these voices are either. "They're angry, and they hate me." This is only one story I tell Mr. Doctor.

Meg and I try to explain madness to this white suited robot, who looks so normal (please excuse bitterness) that he's probably planning which fly to tie onto his pole tomorrow, or maybe he's going over his sacrament talk on home teaching, while I keep reaching, trying--with all the words I've ever had in me--to paint the hell Beau is living in, how he burned his arm twice last night with a cigarette to take away the pain in his head. In fact, now I'm standing between him and Beau, saying, "He's not a cutter, you see; it's just that the pain gets so bad he has to redirect it--make it come from some other place than from his head. Do you understand?"--already I know he doesn't. How could he?

If I'm not careful--using these stupid inadequate words, words trying to explain insanity--another dimension most people don't know about, care about, can't understand, unless they've walked the path. They can't hear these words. What are the words? Where are they? This will be the book I write. I will find the words to explain the landscape of insanity; I swear I will do it--but, If I'm not careful, the thought crosses my mind, this guy will take me to the neurological center along with Beau. But, who the hell cares? I believe mothers have excuses for hysteria.

Finally, this doctor--healer of men--looks at Beau, who's busy listening to two women argue in his head.

One says she's from Tennessee, but Beau knows she's lying. "She's really from Texas, Mom; why does she swear she's from Tennessee?" And I want to grab his head like Dinero grabs the sides of Christopher Walkin's head in Deer Hunter, to keep his brains from falling out all over the floor. But instead I'm screaming again, "Who the heck cares where they live, Beau? They're in your head right now, so It doesn't much matter. Tell them to shut up and back off, so you can hear me. I'M THE MOTHER." These coping methods make me realize I'll certainly make Mother of the Year next month, and God has me already lined up to join the ranks of Compassionate Nurses in the next life.

But I can't explain the landscape in Beau's head to this man, who finally gets Beau's attention. "Do you concur with what your mother's said, young man?" Really. I'm not kidding. That's exactly what he said, like I'd just told him Beau's finger hurts, and I think he needs a band-aide.

Then we see Beau, in great shame, drop his head, and say yes. And Meg and I want to pick him up like a little child and protect him from all evil, but instead we melt with relief and go home to crawl into fetal positions until we can grasp that we may be losing him.

So, we go to the parade. I've had no sleep the night before because I watched him fight imaginary, full blown people, who hate his guts, who tell him not to talk to anyone, who scream at him until he bashes his head against the tree outside the back door to make them stop. But, it's the next day now--the 4th of July. I turn over on the couch to get away from the cat and fall off on the floor, which wakes me up; I hear ducks and grab the rest of the bread to feed them--and suddenly, before I know it--I'm really awake, and I need this Rexburg, small town, ridiculous parade, where the winning float is from Grease Monkey. My grand daughter is marching. And Meg's new husband, Ben, who has never seen a Podunk, country parade is hilariously baffled by all the tractors. ("But, they're 1959 tractors, Ben. Get it?" "Hmmm . . . no, not exactly," he says. He's giving it a good try. "They're, well . . . tractors.") He's puzzled by the kids in polished Chevy SUVs, throwing candy ("Ben, those are the student body officers of Sugar Salem. Get it?"); Then military display scares both of us. Ahhh, yes, we're supporting the fighting men, but do we have to do it with tanks and other war machines, which have been made for one purpose--to kill other human beings?

But we wander over to the park and eat mangoes dipped in hot sauce and lime. (They don't taste the same without the tequila--from my much younger days, of course, but I don't care.) We eat corn on the cob slathered with mayonnaise then sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and hot sauce. We eat something from every booth--lots of hot sauce and we get sick. We watch the old Rexburg carousal and listen to the worst music I've ever heard, and get sick, but it's a good day. It's sunny and people are--not exactly happy, but more relaxed, or . . . at least not angry or too irritated. And because we have no, absolutely none, zero expectations, it's a good day. Then I go take pictures of some baby colts in a field along the highway, until the rodeo starts. And it's all good because I love rodeos and fireworks and love to watch the people watching all of it (as long as I have space between us.) And everything lifts for awhile, so I can breathe. These are the days when just breathing is very good. It's enough.

Those Smooth Summer Days

Okay, This is our friend, Jen. Cute. Funny. Compassionate. And always leading the way.

And here is real Em--a side she hides. And how she's feeling today.

Remember this? Joe fished the river-- in and around our brilliant, sun-laced conversations. Poor boy. He was shy then. Really. It's true.

Also, here's Em's Utah shirt:

For the Record, Part Deux

Was going through some old albums yesterday and found this snapshot of Jen. For those of you who read this blog and do not know who "Jen" is that keeps posting on here, this is what she looks like (on a good day). Cheers, Jen Russell Terrier Parkin!

For the Record

The Visit

The best way to describe my life is this: one continual round of getting the shaft. This past week, while Wife lazed away the days, vacationing in Idaho, I was stuck at home rinsing the fecal stench from my hands after changing the 3,000th diaper--yes, the kids stayed with me.
A couple pictures from the get-together of the three wise women.




P.S. After posting the photo of Claire with the oversized beetle, complete with ungainly serrating mandibles, I've gotten a few questions about my parenting skills (everyone loves backseat drivers). So, to comply, here's a picture that we took tonight of Claire with a much more docile critter. Just your garden variety locust. I'd never had the chance to examine one closely before. I'm tempted to think our pioneer ancestors were a little prejudiced. They're not too bad looking--locusts, that is. This will be the last of the bug shots for awhile, unless something really impressive comes along.

Midnight River Sounds

Jen, yours and Em's last post made me cry. Beautiful. Really. Thanks. (And, Em. I'm still in a Feng shui-stage.)

Our Healing Place. I still think clothes hangers were the perfect reward for you all painting the kitchen. I was proud of my practicality, when my first grab was for ping pong balls to symbolize our group. Did Aaron Davis really put together the bookcase? and Joe G. fix the garage door opener? Or was I dreaming?

Actually, I spent a long time dreaming (nightmares) in those days before the river slowly cleaned out the dead places, making room for some peace. What is it about certain places? I think they're gifts from God. At the risk of grossing out Jaren, James and Joe (J.J.J. hang on guys: G for gush), I remember ripping out my heart at night and taking hours under the stars--a trillion stars--to wash it in river water, but the next morning I woke up again to the same unbearable pain, and I'd plead and scream at the universe to make it stop--Can God take away sharp memories that cut up our insides like broken glass? Yes, I believe yes, but only in His time and in His way.

Like Rachel in the wilderness, I wandered around under the trees in numb circles, looking for my children, for my family, for the strong arms of my temple sealed husband, for his voice, for his bed. I told God no one can stand this--especially not me--the weakest of the weak. "You are a cruel Monster," I'd shriek at him like a madwoman, "not to offer to take my heart to your throne and send it back alive and whole again, because I know you can do this, if you wanted to." . . . Instead, He gave me this endless river, and I'd lie in the grass and listen until the sharpness eased into hurt, then longing, then numbness, then slowly I became the grass, and one morning I heard fifteen different bird calls. Then a doe and twin fawns came into the backyard to stay around all one summer, and two bald eagles landed often in the trees. I saw I wasn't cast into outer darkness but walked with a hundred thousand living creatures, and they were all good. No sin. If a hawk dove for a fish, it was because he was hungry. And God had created and organized all this (only Man screwed up the scenario) and had given it to me for awhile. And He is a Master artist. And I still remember the morning I woke up to realize I was still breathing--I hadn't died--and didn't want to. And I've stopped envying people in coffins, because sometimes my heart is so light, it floats with the river and bird songs. And sometimes it's not--but I didn't die.

In my P. blessing is a line I hate: "When things in your life become difficult--almost unbearable--the Lord will raise up friends . . . ." That "unbearable" word scared me (still does). But He has done what He promised. All of you (and more) are my soul mates. You have--each in a different way--blessed me and lifted me when I could not walk or even sit up. Just like Chan did a couple of weeks ago, you help me like I'm your broken sister, instead of your older mother. And I thank you. I don't know how else to say that feeling. It sounds so trite, but I thank all of you for being with me in the pre-existence and dropping in once in awhile down here. I love you, and I love the Lord, and now I'm so sorry I shot the beavers and chased the raccoon with a flashlight. (Geez, Jen, way to open floodgates.)

Places

I haven’t actually written anything besides Craigslist ads or emails for I don’t know how long (I know a gasp from all you super devoted writers). I don’t have any diversion towards it or anything, I just haven’t made time for it. I do, however, write in my head, mostly as I go to bed at night. I have started many novels, written various emails or thought of what could go on my blog next. Last night’s writing was for Sharon’s blog though and I felt inspired to actually put it down on paper.

When I saw the picture of the river, my heart sank a little. Upper Darby, Pennsylvania is fine, but I don’t love it the way that I LOVE southeast Idaho, especially Sharon’s house. I know what you all are thinking. We all love Sharon’s, but I think that my generation of Writing Center folk, especially a few of us, have special claim on her Idahoan paradise. We were there when she first moved in. We were there for her first Christmas. In fact, I decorated her house while she was gone because she absolutely refused to let me decorate while she was there (she didn’t want it decorated at all…but I’m stubborn). I was one of the first to live at Sharon’s and I know I was definitely one of the first to clean Sharon’s. I picked out the colors for her deck (saving us all from an ugly gray) and for her kitchen, and along with Trevor, Emily and Serena, signed my name in cranberry colored paint behind her refrigerator in an effort to become immortal according to the house.

I’m not exactly sure what the purpose of this post is, other than to maybe say that there is something special, maybe even a little bit magical, about that house. We have all loved it for so many reasons. So I guess this is to say, Sharon, if the rumor mill is true and you are thinking of selling (again), just know that your house has healed and helped more than just you. We all love your house and we have all needed the sanctuary that it provides at sometime or another.

Oh and if you do sell, make sure to tell the new owners that there is a pretty good chance that there will be hippie kids coming in and out looking for you, probably for as long as the house is there.

Rocky Raccoon

Hey, is that James Best out there? I hope so, 'cause I miss you lots.
And, yes, JG, Chan is Tanner and Berrett's (msp) brother. We LOVE the Warnicks. Tanner is the side picture. They're part of our pre-existent crowd, I'm sure of it. No, really, I'm serious. Otherwise how do we explain these deep, no-maintenance relationships we all have. In fact, if I push real hard against my brain cells, I can see Tanner singing one of Jame's or Jaren's poems, while Joe beats the black drums as Em, Greg, I dance around and through the fire with full hippie headbands (headbands made from snake skin for hippies, you cynical idiots.) Chandler is watching over all of us to keep the snakes away (or stuff them in his back pocket. That child is one snake-lover. But, I forgive him because of his deep sincere and constant honesty). Jen has cooked the frogs for our dinner in a special lime sauce; Emily Pew is late; Jaren, Josh, and James (the JJJ's)are already again by the river writing, writing, writing until the smell of crisp frog covered with bacon and lime juice brings them running. And the Lord approves and smiles. Then, we are all itching to get down here to our polluted earth-life ASAP. I must have been out of my mind to say I'd come down first and meet up with y'all during my PTSD from earlier nuclear bombs exploding in and around my humble domain.
Raccoons? I found a huge Rainbow Trout last night on the lawn by my canoe and threw it back in the river. I thought JG had been out fishing earlier and left it for my dinner, until I realized I'd interrupted a raccoon. Patch (my small dog, who thinks he's a St. Bernard) ran after him through the Sleeping Beauty-like hedge around my house (as in briers, cockle-burs, and rotted cottonwood trees; I build it up to keep the world away). I flashed a light and saw his eyes--red, lined with white--pure cold hatred. I called Patch back from sure-death but . . . wow. I've never seen a raccoon in my many midnight walks under the moon. Sigh, moments of pure remorse. I'm sorry, dear raccoon. Next time you flip your trout dinner on my lawn, I'll bring you ice cream for desert.

One Green and Speckled Frog

As promised, here are the pictures of Emily's latest feeding frenzy.

In the first picture, my stepson Triston is showing Emily his prized frog. They have been together for a very long time. It is his best friend.

In the background is Emily's date Dane who, earlier that day, was walking down the street with a bag of groceries when he was accosted by Emily and forced to accompany her for the evening. Shown here, he is praying: "I don't know what I did to offend Thee . . . ." The rest is just garbled pleadings.

In the second picture, after back-handing Triston and playing a game of bobbing for Lumpy, Emily is making short work of the frog. Triston is crying in his bedroom with a pillowcase over his head and Dane is hiding under the table, quivering and moist. It took 45 minutes and a plate of sugar cookies before he came out again.

On the bright side, before the frog was downed, its skin excreted a fine toxic foam into Emily's mouth. She was pretty sick there for a while, vomiting blood and bits of rubber hose. Doing okay now. The only thing remaining is a voice like Tom Waits' and a mouthful of plantar warts.

Needless to say, it took a nearly a week before Dane got up the courage to ask her out again.

The third picture (Claire with elephant stag beetle) illustrates the power of bad examples.

On a different note, for those of you who are in Idaho:

The Sierra Leone Refugee All-Stars are playing in Boise and Hailey this week. Boise-28th. Hailey-29th.

I just learned about this band. All the members are refugees who were forced from their homes in that country's bloody revolution from 1999-2004. The murders and mutilations that occured there are very similar to what is happening in Uganda and Sudan right now, only on a smaller scale.

There is a remarkable documentary film about this band that I saw on PBS late last night if you're interested. Also, here's a link to their myspace page where you can hear a song or two. In addition to their pacifist message they've got a funky beat that I can really bug out to. Check it.