The House That The Hussy Built

This is a pretty innocuous blog. I don't espouse my religious beliefs (well, I guess I sorta do by stating that we don't have any). I don't use this place as a soapbox for my political views, my thoughts on abortion, circumcision, or people who choose to pick their noses and eat their boogers. I'm not that funny, witty, or smart. I don't give you any tips on how to live your life better, how to cook better, how to smell better, how to knit better. Hell, I don't give you anything. I sometimes will write something that makes someone think, but generally what I do is write things as vague as the beginning of this sentence.

*if you're reading this blog for the very first time, know that I often put myself down and that I know self deprecation is not an appealing character trait but it's sort of all about self preservation and that I also know this house isn't that boring. I actually have a pretty interesting life, with very amazing friends attached. I hope you'll stay to find that out.

But it's been a year now that I've spent chipping away at our lives up here on the mountain- dissecting the good from the bad. I'd like to thank you all for coming back to see what we're up to and for sometimes participating and for...sometimes not. I'd like to particularly thank Char and someone who I know named anonymous, whose deposits into my mental bank are making the adventure here seem somewhat lucrative. And I'd like to thank her and Angie, who always tell me they love visiting. And to Mud, who gives me gentle nudges of encouragement, I appreciate you. And, of course, to my mother and father, I feel very lucky that you still call me yours.

I started this whole thing because of him (please read it world, because I didn't expect you to be here when I wrote it). And I still regret to this day that I don't have the energy, stamina, willpower to choose him over all the other daily goings on that make me have to sometimes choose them over him. And now it's a handshake or a general wave at each other as life swiftly rushes by. And I always dreamed it another way. I still dream it another way.

Paul Bunyan is often too busy doing all the things to make this homestead a better place to read my words. But someday he'll read this. Maybe when I've retired from this blog world, or worse yet from THE world.


But he'll remember the day I took this picture. I showed it to him on my camera and he said, "ack, not enough contrast." But I kept coming back to this image. I know if I knew anything about Photoshop I could add me some contrast into it, but I don't, so I won't. Instead, I added my own style of contrast...

So to Paul,
The color of dusk is ringing. Its bell is faint. But I think you can hear it if you relive the night you drove all the way to me.


I politely ask you as you
carefully sway in a dark breeze,
"Catch me."
"Give me the chance to touch the tips of you."
"Help me stay for a moment."
"I want to see down to your roots and recall
the unfledged way you kindled me
into your fire."
That's all I should need.
Until I'm blown again your way
and I can feel your fingertips
tickle my belly.
And, then, I'll laugh.