The circle of my influences

Hard as it may be to imagine, my loquaciousness isn’t impervious to fatigue. There are times, when I need a respite from talking. All of it, even my twiddly little fingers on the keyboard, stop. When I come to this point of stillness, the sounds around me flood my senses. To tune out the chaos of three talkative and argumentative kids, I turn on the radio. What I hear disturbs me.

Mr. Sting of the Police has informed me; he is sending out an S.O.S.
I might have been interested in reading his little missive, had he not told me so many times. I think we would all do well to abandon him on his little island lest he torment anyone else with infinite repetition. I think even the sharks should refuse to gobble him. Chewing him would be like going over the same thing again and again, and there’s already been too much of that.

If AC/DC could just choose a current do you think they’d have to be back in black? I mean, it just takes a little planning of your voltage needs, really.

The band Boston says it’s more than a feeling. How much more? A strong hunch? Or is it a physical manifestation of something that was once a feeling but has now matured into something more painful like cramps?

And then there are the mysteries to ponder. I think Bob Marley may have in fact shot the deputy. Think about it. He has no qualms with admitting his crime; he gleefully admits he shot the sheriff. I get the sense he simply wants the confusion cleared up. I would posit that the sheriff had been demoted to deputy unbeknownst to Mr. Marley. Does anyone beside me care?

And do you think Paul Simon has a digital camera now or is he still tinkering with his kodachrome? Do you think him and Julio have kept in touch? I’m picturing Julio sitting on an olive green couch, rolling his eyes, waiting for Paul to load the carousel of his slide projector.

If Led Zeppelin tells me more than eight times, light of the love I have found, what does this convert to in wattage? Is that fluorescent? Is there a conversion chart for this? Fortunately, I think any love I have also has a dimmer function.

R.E.M is telling me that was just a dream. This seems a little obvious.

Fleetwood Mac (or is that Macs?) tell me, don’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Don’t stop, it’ll soon be here. What happens if I do stop? Will the world implode?

An advertisement is featuring the claim that their service is unparalleled. Does this mean that none of their competitors can travel in a parallel fashion? Are we doomed to watch the various industries of our semi-successful capitalism travel in divergent or colliding paths? It seems hard to find a profit angle in that scheme, but maybe I’m just being obtuse.

Yeah, that’s right I’m hitting the geometry humor. You can’t stop me; I’m going to get all tautological with this mother. So, listening to the radio has taught me that being receptive is over-rated. And. . . .close.

Thank you and goodnight; you’ve been a wonderful audience.
Next show is at 11.

Dear Adversity,

Why must you embarrass yourself like this? It’s obvious you keep trying, and yet consistently I laugh in your face. Ha. Like so.

You have made my long, winding, and steep driveway impassable to all but the most impressive of machines. Did you think I would wither away for want of groceries and the companionship of my peers? Aha, ha ha. I think not.

You have taken for granted just how hungry I am for friends. You’re also doing me the favor of shaving inches off my thighs and building muscle tone. As for the groceries, I may be the mother of invention as well as three children, because I have a sled. So there, take that.

I planned ahead for this ridiculous weather of yours. By the way, have you heard of a thing called over–kill? Sheesh, what are you compensating for? But I digress. I planned ahead for these storms. I stocked up on pellets for the wood pellet stove. It didn’t matter that the drive was already too slick to make it all the way up. These are mere details, inconveniences you throw before me that I easily step around, as I carry ten forty-pound bags of pellets up to my
garage.

Power outages? Please. We’ve been through that before. Remember the huge thunderstorm when you broke the gutter above the egress window; when the view from my girl’s room became a murky aquarium? I bailed out shoulder-high water, with a bucket, in the middle of the storm.
Not having any electricity for a shower or a hair dryer afterwards didn’t faze me then, why should losing heat in a blizzard freak me out?

I got all ingenious with my pesky dependence on heat to stay alive in a blizzard. I rigged up a marine boat battery with an inverter so I could run the pellet stove for two days. I splurged on a real generator in case the power went out for longer. I have to admit it, you almost got me with the stove malfunction. That was well played Adversity, well played indeed. If I’d been listening to Intuition I could have seen that one coming. It’s unnatural and evil to put too much technology and industry into an affair that is, at its heart, so simple.

Wood pellet stoves are stupid, stupid things. The fact that they require electricity to operate an auger to feed store bought pellets into a fire puts two things in between me and my heat. I should have known better. Wood pellet stoves are just a lie from when suburbanites got all warm and fuzzy for alternative heat as gas and oil prices rose. The fact that Businessman Bob can pour a bag of wood into the fire without changing out of his dress pants makes it obvious to whom they were marketing. The allure and magic of burning wood, without the chainsaw outdoorsy thing has your friend Deception’s name all over it. How’s he been lately? Do you guys still have that pick up basketball game on Thursdays?

Anyway, credit where it’s due. The stove was near genius. Especially that part where it seemed I’d figured out the problem, only to go and break it myself irreparably. I’ve learned my lesson. A simple woodstove will do fine in the future. No silly middlemen in between me and what I need. It doesn’t matter that I’m a small weakling with no upper body strength. I can fell a tree, chop, split and stack the wood with the sheer power of my will alone.

I know what all this effort is on your part. It’s so transparent. You only pay so much attention to me because you like me. Admit it. Like a little boy tugging the braids of the girl at the desk in front of him, you want me. I know, I’m nearly irresistible on a lot of levels. It might be the crazy curly hair (don’t think I don’t know you tighten these springy boingers each night); it might be the stretch marks and scars. It’s obvious that you and I have had more than a passing association. But that’s over now. I am simply not available and you just have to move on.

I don’t think a restraining order should be necessary. I think it’s clear I can defend myself against your advances. For that matter, you’d best not make me mad. I would recommend that you don’t cancel school again. If you do, the heat of my rage might melt all this snow. Oh, and don’t bother trying to get smart, breaking the rope on my sled. I have shoelaces, and I’m not afraid to use them.

Yours, (in a figurative sense only)

The hot chick with the can-do attitude

P.S. Tell Deception I like what he's been doing with my mirrors. I've never looked so good.

I would be remiss not to make mention of the view

It's like this. In every direction. For forever.