I may not be entirely in my right mind this week—it’s hard to tell when one is
on the eccentric spectrum. This occurred, which is probably not normal.
“Egghead Ventures are happy to announce the commencement of a new air service
between Frankfurt and Kyle of Lochalsh, one which may eventually include human
passengers. At the outset our service is aimed at business class poultry,
which is to say chickens who are on business and who are willing to pay for
upgraded accoutrements. We expect losses initially, but after the Initial
Public Offering, we are confident in the future of our project. Apply for a
Dad is still here. Arse-
nal hover above the drop.
The world is not sad.
I opened what remains of a bag of Maltesers that traveled with us this summer,
this hot summer, in Europe. Maltesers have no connection to the island; they
are chocolates created by an American named Forrest Mars, Sr. in England in
1936 and originally marketed as a slimming product. If the chocolate had an
airy middle, maybe people would too, “The lighter way to enjoy chocolate.”
Mine are absolutely less fattening, on account of being inedible goop.
If you want a funny reference to Maltesers, watch QI on how it took three
hundred years to name giant tortoises.
The chickens came running, knowing that at bed time there’s often a treat, a
last little amuse bouche before bed. Excited noises.
“We’ve got the timing right girls.”
“Fortunately we were in the neighborhood and spotted him going in.”
“Saved ourselves a deal of trouble. I mean what if he cached it under the
“Imagine the scratching we’d have to do to find crumbs!”
“Crumbs or seeds.”
“So what’s he dropping?”
“Looks like shavings.”
“You can’t eat shavings.”
“He’s dropping them on our pooh.”
“It’s a ruse.”
“Fool me once and I’m a banana; fool me twice and I’m quite annoyed.”
“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”
“It does when I say it.”
“Well you’ve got a point there.”
“Yes, yes, she had a point.”
“At the end of your bloody beak."
I stepped back and closed the door. Left them to talk themselves to sleep.
I look at my garden at the height of summer and think “height” is entirely the
wrong word; everything’s falling over, dry, dead. Gardens are like
mathematicians; they tend to peak early. My ideas could be the same way. I
still think they’re worth nurturing and there’s nothing like a strong root for
producing a beautiful flower, but so much of the world today seems modeled on
forcing, getting a shallow root to produce something showy. Learn a little
continental vocabulary, lean towards the sun and voila, a position, beside all
the other sunflowers in an oil-producing field. Perhaps this is why you stare
at a garden in the second half of August, to remind yourself that Autumn is
coming and to note, though you have been miserly with the watering, the
accumulated mulch of leaves is keeping weeds to an absolute minimum. Well done
that man. What joy there is in making soil.
In other news…I received a flier this week from a paint and art supplies
company. They have a sale and want me to know that cobalt substitutes are now
available. Cobalt is used in bright colors. Also in horse feed apparently.
Yes horses are fed cobalt, but there is such a thing as too much. The Guardian
reported that a horse racing Authority is investigating whether some racehorse
won because it ate too much cobalt. More, I don’t understand, but should you
hear of an artist suddenly winning the Olympic 100 meters, you can put two and