Sunday, April 03, 2005
Boiling Pot
(Iceland-1.jpg from layne kennedy) It's Sunday, the a.m. Well, the late a.m. Sometime last night the time dwarfs stole an hour from me and I sit here at 11:00 a.m., looking for 10:00 a.m. As Autumn so graciously extended my day by an hour, Spring grips it back, shaking me out of bed at an ungodly hours. Even my dreams were disturbed, as they usually are each first weekend in April.
What with the Pope's passing, my dreams meandered in and out of death last night. My late father drifted in and out as well, his laugh and his shake-of-the-head coupled with a sad grin greeting each new foray into my night's thoughts. Somehow, I ended up in the Congo, mid 1950's. My father's uncle, the man who was responsible for getting my dad out of the "New Europe" into the "New America", was a petroleum engineer for an American oil exploration company. In those days, "petroleum engineer" was something like today's rappers or yestrday's skateboarders. It was an exciting and dangerous profession; one that you actually packed a pistol when on the job at times. He disappeared in the Congo; he was never found. Family legend has it that he was captured and then served up for a celebration feast by the infamous man-eating pygmies. My father told me this story, grinning if I recall correctly. His ability to pass off a dry tale as the truth was extraordinary; I always believed or wanted to believe his version of things becasue the alternative was so boring.
So, there was my father's uncle in a huge enormous pot, boiling, possibly with other nationalities so as to get the stew tasting just right. He was even smiling, although unlike this pic, I don't recall him having breasts, well not cleaving-type breasts. But there was a lot of steam and the pot was huge, its outer rim stretching over the horizon.
But, I lost my hour. Maybe the stew was getting overcooked.
(Iceland-1.jpg from layne kennedy) It's Sunday, the a.m. Well, the late a.m. Sometime last night the time dwarfs stole an hour from me and I sit here at 11:00 a.m., looking for 10:00 a.m. As Autumn so graciously extended my day by an hour, Spring grips it back, shaking me out of bed at an ungodly hours. Even my dreams were disturbed, as they usually are each first weekend in April.What with the Pope's passing, my dreams meandered in and out of death last night. My late father drifted in and out as well, his laugh and his shake-of-the-head coupled with a sad grin greeting each new foray into my night's thoughts. Somehow, I ended up in the Congo, mid 1950's. My father's uncle, the man who was responsible for getting my dad out of the "New Europe" into the "New America", was a petroleum engineer for an American oil exploration company. In those days, "petroleum engineer" was something like today's rappers or yestrday's skateboarders. It was an exciting and dangerous profession; one that you actually packed a pistol when on the job at times. He disappeared in the Congo; he was never found. Family legend has it that he was captured and then served up for a celebration feast by the infamous man-eating pygmies. My father told me this story, grinning if I recall correctly. His ability to pass off a dry tale as the truth was extraordinary; I always believed or wanted to believe his version of things becasue the alternative was so boring.
So, there was my father's uncle in a huge enormous pot, boiling, possibly with other nationalities so as to get the stew tasting just right. He was even smiling, although unlike this pic, I don't recall him having breasts, well not cleaving-type breasts. But there was a lot of steam and the pot was huge, its outer rim stretching over the horizon.
But, I lost my hour. Maybe the stew was getting overcooked.
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: 12:14 PM, April 11, 2005
: 12:14 PM, April 11, 2005 << Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
