The ancient ones.

I went to a trip in the mountains and found a beautiful spot of ground covered with trees that have given up the ghost.

Old wood has always fascinated me. There's something that tingles inside me every time I see an old tree, naked of leaves, its beautiful twisted branches exposed to the weather. It's like looking at hard twisted taffy---only tree-sized.

How I start my day. The Milking Hour

Feeling like a Zucchini

Dear blog,

I'm feeling like a zucchini today. Weird. Yeah, I know. The phrase, "Going Green" now has new meaning.

Some say that they may feel like a potato, squash, pumpkin, or raisin. But because I'm so unique, I'm feeling like zucchini.

What does a zucchini feel like? Well that's a very good question. First, a zucchini feels like a long, green, spindly thing. They are cool, and they make awesome bread.

Not that I'm really that cool. But everything I'm doing seems like it's taking a loooong time.

Since I'm feeling like a cucumber---no a zucchini how about I give some Zucchini advice. *Anybody feeling like they've been transported into Veggie tales?*

~Zucchini Writer Advice~

1. Enjoy the moment.
2. Laugh a lot.
3. Listen to conversations and record them in your mind.
4. Absorb the beauty of life, then write about it.
5. Take time off.
6. Love your writing like a jogger likes exercise. Joggers don't just jog because it helps them loose weight---it helps them keep balance.
7. Be persistent, and patient.
8. Listen to good music.
9. Set writing goals.
10. Look for the good in your life, your writing, and those around you.
11. Chew gum---it helps thoughts flow more freely.
12. When in need of inspiration, sit still and watch the world, the sky, and humanity.
13. Remember that all great writers once started out just as unknown as you.
14. Rejoice when others succeed.
15. Remember if you write, write, write, you can never be wrong.

Pumpkin Patch Sky

October's here folks. Feels like October, smells like October, looks like October. Heck, it even sounds like October.

A yellow watermelon. What my mom grew in her garden this year.

My mom grew a yellow watermelon! Weird, yes? The funny thing was that even though that yellow watermelon was still a watermelon, to me, it didn't taste the same as a red watermelon. However, I did avoid the strange banana flavor, as I closed my eyes and bit down. Magically the watermelon tasted just like any other watermelon.

This experiment alone tells me that sight plays a *huge* roll on influence. It's rather a scary thought. It makes me wonder how much we judge just by sight. What things could we be missing out on because we think it looks weird? What books would we have read? What people would we have met? What opportunities were missed because of our limited paradigm?

*The Twlight Zone---continued*

I give you one Stephanie Skeem, who noticed a bowl of pears that looked very mushy ripe, so ripe that clouds of fruit flies hovered around it, making it hard for Stephanie to see the fruit.
She surmised that she should rescue the pears from the greedy fruit flies and put an end to their feast days. She carefully chopped up the pears, and put a bag of frozen peaches in the blender, along with some milk. The end result was a wonderful fruity-tootie. It tasted heavenly. Stephanie was very glad she had gone through the effort to salvage the pears from the onslaught of fruit flies.

However, little did she know that the shadowy figure of the Twilight Zone had again been stalking her.

For it wasn't long until Stephanie put a spoonful of the fruitie tootie to her lips that she started rolling a lumpy thing around in her mouth. Perplexed, she spat the lumpy thing out and stared at it. It was rather long, mushy, and white, and it wiggled.

Stephanie let out a scream, feeling the clutches of the Twilight zone squeeze her throat. It was happening again. The Twilight zone had changed her fruity tootie into a fruity-fly Maggot fest.

Until next time....

The Twilight Zone.

*The Twlight Zone*

Welcome to the place between reality and dreaming, a place where time drips along, and the space between that dripping time, freezes, cracks, and then turns into something much different from what you or I know. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

I give you one, Stephanie Skeem, who, on the cold day of 8th of October 09, awoke, just like any normal day and smiled at the cold world outside her window. However that smile would have turned into a worried glance, had she had known that the Twilight Zone was stalking her.
With no premonition of what was in store for her, she went about her day, only to find that her cocktail, a bird that she had since she was very young, was unhappy in his cage. Without thinking of the consequences, she opened this cage just like she did every morning.
After that, Stephanie went about her work, thinking little of her bird. That is, until that evening, when she found his cage missing.
Upset, Stephanie searched the house, calling out, the bird’s name. However there was no trace of the missing bird. Stephanie retraced her steps, checked inside the toilets, to make sure that her bird hadn’t drowned. She even called her nieces and nephews who’d been visited that day. But no, they had no information on the missing bird.
Not knowing what else to do, the frustrated detective, Stephanie, interviewed a key person in her household, only to find that the back door of the house had been open almost all day.
Horrible thoughts raced through Stephanie’s mind as she thought of the possibilities. Perhaps her bird had flown outside, and would freeze in the cold that night. Perhaps her two cats, who were known to sometimes slip through open doors, had found the bird, eaten him, and buried the feathers!
Stephanie rushed outside, whistling catcalls to her bird, while unsuspecting neighbors wondered if the girl, running around her house, was really trying to flatter them in their old age.
After making several rounds of her house and inspecting every tree, Stephanie gave up and went back inside. But she did not give up. She rushed back outside, suspecting the worse. She scanned the grass for traces of her birds remains.
It was dark, cold, and a cool wind chilled her spine. She shivered and looked over her shoulder, feeling someone’s eyes upon her. Seeing nothing, she turned back and inspected the ground, never knowing that the dark eyes of the (The Twilight Zone) were upon her.
Then it happened. Stephanie let out a shrill scream, knelt in the grass and picked up a slender gray wing, in morbid horror. Her eyes widened as she picked up another wing, and a long tail, quite dismembered from the rest of its body.
She stood up with the pieces of her bird’s body in her cold hands, turned her back on the terrible massacre, and ran into the house.
The dark figure of the Twilight Zone followed at a safe distance, snickering.
Once inside, Stephanie showed her family the remains of her beloved bird, Tweedy. While members of her family mourned over the loss of their pet, and stroked the poor bird's feathers, a shrill shriek was heard from the other room.
Stephanie ran to see what was wrong. It was then that she saw it, her bird, perched on a picture frame. ALIVE! She glanced at the feathers in her hands with eyes wide. Her bird had resurrected itself! Or so she thought.
Behind her, the Twilight Zone smiled a sly smile, and turned away, having many more people to perplex and disturb that night. After all, what would the world be like without him? He being the personage who holds the answer to all the strange oddities, perplexities, and mysteries of the world, in his bizarre hands.

What's really going to take over the world. (GOATS)

I milk goats. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because my family loves to drink the milk. Maybe it's because I'm crazy. Perhaps you also milk a goat. *Cheers!* I feel for you. But for those of you who haven't, let me enlighten you an the joys of milking a goat. Oh, and can you believe it. I have a goat reading this post over my shoulder, and she's agreed to give me some pointers for this post. (oh goody)
First, goats goatonalities are very weird. Their eyes are horizontal as a sign of no heartbeat, I presume.
"Baaa," I interject! The above information is not true. You're dissing on me and every other goat on the planet."
Sorry. But the truth hurts.
"My horns do too!"
Ouch! Be nice.
"Too late."
Yeah, I kinda figured that out.
"So are you going to go on with his analysis of my kind, or what?"
Yeah, but easy on the horns, or I'll write something really nasty about you.
"Go ahead. I'm a perfect lamb."
I wish.
"I'm waiting."
Oh, alright. Where was I?
"You were going to tell our audience about the most important thing to goats."
Ha. That's obvious. But, for those of you who don't know, the number one thing that matters most in a goats life is---can you guess? IS FOOD, FOOD. Food! Correct?
"Well...I am a little hungry."
And the second most important thing is, drum roll please---yes, you've guessed it. More food.
"I'm still hungry!"
The third most important thing to a goat is getting to that food no matter what obstacle is in the way, even if it means plowing over helpless persons that may stand in their way.
"Are you referring to the time that I ran you over because you were holding a grain bucket. That wasn't so bad. I mean you only had a couple broken ribs. That wasn't a big deal, was it?"
No comment.
"HUH?"
Do you want to finish this or not?
"Sure, but..."
Okay, the forth most important thing to a goat is making sure that they are the only creature in the desired radius of their food pile. If you happen to near their food pile, watch out!
"Aint that the truth!"
Fifth most important thing to a goat, is making new ways to escape their abode so that they can cover the world and eat everything in sight like NANOBUGS.
"Nanobugs?"
Yes, nanobugs. Goats are the real live nanobugs (with horns) and much scarier.
"Wow. I'm flattered."
Sixth, once discovering the weakness in their abode, goats will take great pains to make the hole bigger. When that hole is repaired, they will work very hard to make new portals in which to escape, so that whatever the evil people do to fix their exit ways, their puny efforts will never be enough to keep them from getting to their food.
"Hah. I'm glad you don't know about the portal I just made the other day. You'll never find out. PSST, don't tell her, but we goats really have wings. Flying over fences is much easier.
The Seventh most important thing to a goat is to create a world where people are ruled by goats. So much so that humans lives are dominated by their existence. Their aim is to make every waking thought of the humans to be for them. They do this by morphing horned heads into small spaces, and then pretending that they are stuck, and starving, so that the humans will have to rescue them over and over again. Even during milking time they struggle to accomplish their evil designs. They make the ritual milking hour expand into hours by being impossible to catch. They kick, and put hooves in the milk. They poop on the milk stand. Kick whenever humans wear anything different. They make sure to run away whenever they want you. They never come to be milked unless it is known that the humans have previously put corn in feeder. They make all sorts of strange, howling noises, and bleating, all day and all night so that the humans will know that they are here, always here!
"Yes, I am. I'm glad you finally noticed me. Your hair tastes weird---like shampoo."
Thanks! I love bald patches on my scalp. Please refrain from chewing on what little hair I have left!
"Gosh, I thought you look good that way. Funny, I just noticed your wordy description of our evil designs. Taking over the world---that makes us sound pretty bold. And looky here, we get a whole blog post about us. It may be that we will be able to accomplish that goal."
I wasn't meaning to encourage you.
"Goats need no encouragement. WE live where none dare live. WE eat what none dare eat. We climb to heights where none dare climb. The world my hate us, the bible may talk bad of us. But we will still be here, after the fire, rain, flood, lightening, and earthquakes. We will still be here. You cannot ignore us."
Oh yeah? Well, I sure am.
"Hah, that's good because I just ate a piece of your manuscript."

Signed,
bAAaaaad. Goats.

Just your friendly neighborhood library

I got in some good library time today. I wanted to get some good self-editing books, and something inspiring to read. As I walked down the rows of books, I couldn't help but marvel at the amount of knowledge we have at our fingertips. Standing next to a row of great books and reading their titles, gives me a satisfied, comfortable feeling, like I'm looking at beautiful photographs of people I once knew and really miss.

*Is that weird or what?* Seriously, when I'm old and gray, some kid will come up to me in the library and ask why I'm weeping over Tennyson, and I'll look up and say, "Oh, I'm just laying ole Tenny to rest."

**Sentimental**

I've always loved libraries. What's not to like? They seem so mature and sensible, like a place where one can be quiet and reflect. Is it sacrilegious to say that libraries seem almost like the inside of a church? There's definitely a resemblance. Perhaps the connection has something more do with the fact that many of the books in the library are about amazing people. Then again, on the other hand, there are books about people exactly the opposite.

Still, I can't help but love the satisfied quiet of the library. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that all good beginnings are there---as with the endings. Maybe that fact alone gives the unsure people, like me, the feeling that our endings, whatever they are, will be good ones.

So, I was going to wake up at five and get started writing. Strangely, it didn't happen. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I put the alarm clock in the perfect place where my hand, acting apart from my logical brain, lazily reached over and put a stop to its lamentations. Seriously, why, why, why, do we do that? It's as if the hand wants sleep more than the rest of our body does. Last time I checked, my hand doesn't yawn, have to keep its eyes open, or go jogging.

Anybody have an answer to that one?

Autumn Tang

A fall "tang" is in the air. Anybody feeling melancholy yet? It's as if September comes and kidnaps the youthful feeling of summer, leaving a vacant, cold, empty spot where it used to reside.

I've been feeling this, "tang" for a few days now. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it's getting colder, that subtle oranges are taking over greens. Maybe it's because I no longer wake up to the sounds of birds, and watch as they nest in the trees, because they have all gone off to warmer climates. Even the children have been whisked away to school, leaving their yards in a somber solitude. The tang is very bittersweet. It is quiet, not loud. Its whisper is cool, like a cold wind blowing off of the ocean.

Anybody else feel it?

The GREAT and GRAND Beginning

My best, and first post---so far.

Thus begins the start of my blogging days. Random thought---has anyone thought about how weird the word, "blog" is? It sounds like a term used in the game Balderdash. If I heard the word, and didn't know what it meant, this is what I'd say it was: A term used when a redneck wanted to take a bath. "I'm pretty dirty from working the fields. I better go take a blog. Get squeaky clean. Don't know what I'd do without my daily blog."

Why blog? It sounds like dog, hog, smog, fog, log.

Hopefully my blog is better than smog.

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"If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." - Toni Morrison