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A book I've seen recommended and would like to get my hands on eventually: "At The Bridge" by Wendy Wickwire.

https://youtu.be/mQwkB1hn5E8 may have been what was recommended today, as well.
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...and I have a book of Rilke's letters to a young poet, am in the midst of a Douglas Adams I hadn't read yet, and have Once and Future King and A Field Guide to Fields (and a book of Neruda and a philosophy/permaculture book and Fukuoka's book) to look forward to.

The world is full of beautiful people.

I am so tired.

And then this weekend the parties start!
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I just realised the ad agency in charge of the Old Spice campaign is Wieden & Kennedy-- I have a book about them, and especially about their Subaru campaign, that I kind of liked. A bunch of clicky is happening in my brain right now. Anyone wanna borrow it?

Quote

Jul. 3rd, 2010 11:37 am
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..from a book I really want to get now, called "Trauma Farm"

We hired a young woman, a university student working her way across the country, to help in the garden, but when she learned I was going to be slaughtering chickens she begged to assist me. This seemed a little twisted at first. While I slaughter animals, I’ve never enjoyed the job, unlike some sadistic farmers I’ve met. She explained that she loved eating meat, and that, like me, she believed it was two-faced to eat meat without having, at least once, participated in the slaying of a living creature. So I said: “Okay,” curious about how this lovely, city-raised, idealistic student would deal with the passion play of death.

Over the years, I’ve developed a simple system with minimal stress for both me and the chickens when I am slaughtering. It’s more complex and much sadder when I’m forced to drive them to the slaughterhouse an island away. I gather the chicken up, holding it until it’s calm, loop the baling twine around the legs, and hook the twine over a nail in the rafters of the woodshed. Then in a swift move I slide the killing blade into its brain through its beak, and let the chicken drop and hang, killing it instantly.

Hardly anyone witnesses real, violent deaths today. Our knowledge of death is now a product of Hollywood films, where the standard victim clutches the heart, or the wound, and keels grandly over, dead. Those deaths are one in a thousand. Almost all creatures when they die release their natural electricity, especially when they bleed out. The bird is already dead, but around 90 seconds after its death it will convulse and shake wildly. As soon as I kill the brain I cut the throat, or sometimes cut the head right off. When the electric death throes begin the convulsing headless chicken will usually just shake and die, but the occasional chicken will flip so hard, it will leap right out of the baling twine and run around, somersaulting and shaking in the ecstatic dance of the death of the nervous system.

The first chicken I killed with my helper watching did exactly that. I was so used to the death convulsions I didn’t think anything about it; then, to my surprise the girl began doing the same dance. She suddenly started screaming and strutting a high, weird-stepping ballet in front of the convulsing chicken. It was completely physical, unthought, visceral, a kind of communion with death and a simultaneous rejection. The guttural noises coming out of her matched her spastic ballet, which echoed the chicken death.

I had no idea what to do. “Are you alright?” I asked when she finally slowed down. A dumb question in the circumstances.

“Yes... yes...” she gasped. “No... no... that was extreme... O man I had no idea... O that was awesome...” She finally choked back her shock and smiled shyly at me, embarrassed. “Wow, I had no idea it would be that real.”
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My toes are cold. I woke up at six thirty this morning in the dark because that's when I wake up and the house was super-warm. I turned it down to 19 and my toes are cold as I wander around looking at furniture on the internet, but I'm happy. I've settled into the idea that the house is almost finished and I can do my thing with it now. I'm afraid my thing might involve painting my room. I also need a big bookshelf for in there. I want badly to go running outside right now - it's all grey and the leaves are falling like all kinds of trapped sunlight through the now-quite-gloom. I bet it's cold.

I'm waiting for Famous to open so I can pop down and pick up some organic liver for breakfast. By the way (and this not just from someone who eats liver, but from someone who likes good food) you should immediately go get a pineapple, cut it into chunks, and fry it (hot!) in bacon fat and eat it. It's unreal good. I mean it. Do it. Now.

So yeah, I feel better now. A night spent next to Bob likely helped, a relaxed morning certainly does, the anticipation of projects like garden and bedroom and livingroom likely helps too. The anticipation of rats is a nice thing, though what a chaotic element to add before my bedroom is in place! Maybe I should paint today and bring them home tomorrow.

I need to get a rake today and do the leaves before the lawn (which is mostly moss anyhow) gets too sad from being under all the big maple plant-suppressors lying on them.

I'm reading The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt, recommended by [livejournal.com profile] mocks, and though it was slow at first his reading it to me out loud definitely got me into the groove. I love hearing people talk about things they love. Almost done it now.

Anticipation of breakfast is a wonderful thing, but I might need to cheat and have a red bean cooler beforehand. I'm super-hungry, it's long past breakfast, and I still need to go buy stuff to eat.

Am trying really hard to come up with a workable scheme for the kitchen so it flows together - walnut, retro wood cupboards, retro teal arborite-with-gold-flecks counter, teal ceiling, clinical white walls. The counter's in good condition, luckily.

I also forgot how much it's important to have rocking chairs in the house. Likely they'll need to be in the back room with a little table and a couch. If I can carve four conversational spaces outta this house then I will, cause if there are four people it's important not to have to retreat to your room with guests if you don't wanna.

Yesterday my boss said, 'my brain hurts, take these bulbs and do a layout in this garden, ask me questions if you need, then plant them.' It was awesome. I love designing. I love -projects-.

I also got a tarp full of leaves for my garden out of the deal. Tucking-in will commence apace. I need four or five more tarps full, but I'll start with the front yard.
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So I'm done The Beauty Myth by one of these Naomis (anyone who writes about women's political stuff seems to be named Naomi) and given the book to Mom, from whom it will trickle to Juggler. Now I must find The Once And Future King by TH White, and a collection of Jonathan Swift. I've decided I'll spend some money on books once in awhile so I can have the joy of lending them out until they disappear after I've read them.

The other night I learned that my biological dad left my mom because of violence, not the other way around (she didn't leave him). I knew he'd been violent, but mom was too (not young but) naive and inexperienced to know it was a problem. My dad, OTOH, was trained in military stuff and freaked out over these incidents that happened, like, once every six months. He was scared he'd lose control, and do something really bad (other than, like, just sending mom to the emergency room for stitches). He just left, poof, one day... and he never came back. Funny, that's always the thing I was scared of guys doing to me. I was one and a half at the time, I wonder...

My dad's brother was a high school teacher with five kids who one day ran away with one of his students.

I was very-almost aborted on my dad's part, because after the prognancy started he decided suddenly he didn't want another kid (he was paying child-support on one). Mom was like, 'nope, I already made the decision to have this one, you do what you want'. He decided, then, that he actually did want me.

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