untitled, as of yet

the brightest flash
in ink-sot night
leads searching eyes
on jagged path.

twink of silver
a burst of gold;
weave back and forth
in boundless blue.

no match the stars
hung heavens high
evading moon
and giggling grasp.

on outstretched wing
the glimmer glows
from blade of grass:
the firefly dance.

junk hauler

The plane was dark. There were a couple of portholes in the front of the plane and a window in the door where we boarded, but that was it. The dim running lights drained power from the aircraft, so the main power was saved for the operation of the plane, not us passengers in the back. It was relatively quiet; the rattling of the aircraft and it's cargo could never actually be described as quiet, but there wasn't a lot of internal human noise from where I was seated.

We rose at 4:00 to drive almost 2 hours in the fog and rain to get to the terminal by 6:20 to get on the space-available list. Then we had to load up the luggage; fortunately my husband was there for that. Loading onto the aircraft was something else entirely. Exactly how do you buckle an FAA-approved carseat into a webbed jumpseat again? After some help from a couple of obvious dads clad in desert BDU's, the three of us were satisfied with the tightness of the safety harness on the carseat. One of them even boosted her into it, buckled her in, and handed her the Pooh Bear that had dropped on the floor. My tired, grateful smile was returned with a tired, wistful smile. He'd get to hold his own again soon.

The takeoff was shaky, as expected. Someone who had slept through the stop at my terminal fell off their perch on the cargo and landed with a loud thunk, followed by peals of laughter. I smothered a smile and looked away. I wasn't part of their world; I didn't want to seem obtrusive. I busied myself with entertaining my daughter, all the while keeping us strapped in, just like we were on a "real" plane." She played with toys, got bored, ate small snacks, got bored some more. It was a long flight ahead of us and I was running out of amusements....

The miles slipped by below us and I could feel some of the stress of the day slip away along with those miles. That stress was replaced with a gnawing worry or slight fear. I'm not afraid of flying. I looked out the window to see how far above the earth we were. I love to look at the ocean from waaaaay up high and see whitecaps, like fine white pencil-lines on a canvas of shimmering blue. The clouds lazily drifted by under the wings and the sun laid golden fingers along the very edges of those clouds almost daring the liquid gold to spill into the ocean below.

She wriggled out of my arms again, desperately trying to free herself. She kicked the baby in my stomach and I dropped her to her feet, but never letting go of that precious baby hand. She was bored out of her skull. I led her back to our seats where and the backpack stashed with fun toys and snacks. Her juice cup was almost empty so I cracked open a bottle of water and urged her to swallow those last drops of juice. I remember them telling me that the environmental controls were iffy around Iceland, so we had to stay hydrated. It was starting to get chilly. I pulled the sweater over my daughter's head, carefully pulling the pigtails through and helping her with her arms. I put my arms through my own sweater, but my 29-week belly prevented me from buttoning it up.

She wanted to romp and play again, but I just couldn't. The baby was zapping all of my energy and my daughter wanted the rest. All I wanted was to curl up into a ball and go to sleep. One of the guys approached us from the middle of the plane. He had a great big wad of newspaper tightly scrunched into a ball and hastily secured with some electrical tape. He asked if she could play with them and I looked skeptically at the area and the guys. I heaved myself to my feet and walked her over to where they were playing some kind of make-shift soccer/kickball game between crates of cargo and canvas tie-down straps. My mommy-eye saw several potential hazards for an almost-three-year-old, not the least of which were several pairs of large feet in desert suede combat boots. They kicked the ball gently to her and encouraged her to kick it back. She did with gusto and the whole bay area broke out in laughter. The game was on.

One of my carseat helpers gestured me back to my seat and the warm Pooh blanket scrunched up. He assured me that she wasn't going to go anywhere, and that there were several dads present. He even pointed to the first aid kit above my head. Well, duh. A planeful of dads, coming home to see their kids....she was in good hands. I laid down on the webbing of the seat, the straps digging into my hips and shoulders, draped the blanket over me and dropped off to sleep almost instantly.

My nap was far from quiet and my mommy-sleep mode forbade me from sleeping deep enough that I couldn't hear what was going on. But when I finally dragged myself up again, I was rested a bit and starving. We hadn't had time to get food before boarding the plane and I was saving all the snacks for my daughter, hoping they would last another 5 hours. I was surprised to find my daughter sleeping, buckled into her carseat again, her sweater carefully folded on the seat by the backpack. One of the dads told me they "wore her out but good" and she fell asleep on the loadmaster's shoulder. So much for that mommy-sleep mode of mine. I stretched and peeked out of the porthole and saw that we were over land again. It was considerably warmer than when I went to sleep; I estimated that we might be over Jersey or New York.

Ahhh, home again. Just knowing we were in American airspace made me feel all tingly and happy. The stress of finishing out this pregnancy and possibly delivering the baby without my husband slipped off into the back of my mind. I was taken by surprise to see the loadmaster come up to me and tell me to buckle up because they were preparing for landing. I must have been out for three or four hours. That meant we were over Iowa, not Jersey. Almost home. My stomach flip-flopped.

The plane tilted several times and I held onto the webbing, the jumpseat harness squishing against my swollen belly. My girlie woke up during the descent and the pressure was bothering her ears, but I had no bottle or pacifier to giver her; she'd already outgrown those. Thankfully the rattling cargo drowned out her whining to all but me. We banked again and several hard bumps later, we were screeching along the runway, slowing down.

All the dads had their duffel bags slung over their shoulders, but they still managed to wrangle my 75-pound suitcase, the steamer trunk and the carseat down the steps for me. They left us at the terminal, the only civilian passengers, and milled around joking and laughing about delivered pizza and 24-hour Walmarts. Some of them were home, greeted with big hugs and squeals of happiness, walking away in small clusters of tears and laughter. The rest of them loaded onto the base shuttle bus that would take them to billeting for the night. I never did learn any of their names, even though they were written on their uniforms plain as day. I made a call to my parents to come retrieve us, since they had no idea if I would even get on the flight, let alone know when it would leave and when it would arrive.

Then I was alone, except for the girlie-girl and our luggage, on a deserted tarmac, in the heat of July. The aircraft turnover crew unloaded the cargo. Forklifts and fuel trucks scurried back and forth between warehouses and the plane. We watched as one aircraft took off, banked around the airfield and landed briefly before taking off again. The obviously new pilot was practicing "touch-and-go's" while my daughter ran in circles, arms splayed out like wings, yelling, "I want to fly those airplanes like the soldiers when I'm a mommy too."

Nothing would make me prouder.

at least they try, right?

Aside from Yoda, most people honor and respect the "good ol' college try." Many people see the work invested, and brush aside the perfectionist attitude to praise that effort. So many people today are angered over the immigration issues...who is and is not welcome and/or allowed, whether or not amnesty should be granted, whether we should declare English as our national language (because it is not specifically stated anywhere, as of yet). The list goes on. In the midst of the heated and ongoing debates here, on the news and being carried out in protests, restaurant kitchens, landscaping firms, and construction sites, I received a new notice from a business in my area. Complete with a menu. I give you,

E for Effort

"NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN is a traditional Chinese-Style Restaurant. NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN pays great attention to the general visitor's health. So, you can taste the legitimate Chinese-Style here. NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN requests in food choice aspect very high. For example: The meats, the seafood, the vegetables and so on. NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN uses the superior quality to achieve the low fat and the high textile fiber and to increase food nutrition.

NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN doesn't forget vegetarian diet! NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN uses the pure vegetables rapeseed oil regarding our food. Therefore, no matter you are the common visitor or the vegetarian, all can enjoy all delicacies food in NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN.

Good news! Our chefs have several years experience to provide the birthday party, the company party and so on. NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN provides different situation food and the drink. Above this new service, lets the general visitors have the different choices.

Remembered: Only NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN is able to provide you a legitimate Chinese-Style good food. Eliminates this, you can eat your health by the most beneficial price! No matter the Western-Style food or the snack, we all welcome you the presence. Can provide the good food for you, which is our being honored. In this, NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN thanks you the support and the presence!

NEIGHBOR'S KITCHEN wish all our customers have a health and prosperity new year."

I am so not poking fun. I love our neighborhood hole-in-the-wall Chinese places. When they see us walk through the door, they have actually moved other customers because we are regulars, and they usually only have 1 or 2 tables big enough for all 6 of us. It helps, I suppose, having linguist friends, I have taught my children to say "thank you" in Mandarin. The whole staff was tickled pink and they gathered 'round the table all at once to hear it. I understand the gist of the text, but it is so funny to hear their grammar creeping into our language. I guess that puzzle is what made me want to learn all the languages I could. We, as Americans, could actually learn more than one lanuguage and soften the barriers around us, instead of building ever longer, ever taller concrete walls to block out the things we don't understand.

Just a thought for today, Yoda: try not...or try your hardest; we all have to fit on this marble somehow.

is that a chipmunk in your pants?

Dude, I am so serious.

I was sitting on the front porch, admiring the mudpatch in the front used-to-be yard, eating a king-sized Snickers ice cream bar, when my Lartian appeared around the corner of the house. He is, shall we say fashionably challenged, but managed to find an old red teeball shirt to stuff hap-hazardly into his red shorts this morning. He did good today, even with his white socks pulled stretched all the way up to his knees. He was running around the yard like a loon in good Lartian custom so his baby cheeks were a rosy pink. With all this red going on, it was hard not to notice the critter in his pants.

Peeking out of the waistband of my son's red ensemble was his small, brown, bewhiskered, stuffed chipmunk (named Chippy, if it matters). I couldn't resist. I had to ask:

"Is that a chipmunk in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

He beamed in the way only my Lartian can, with a spark in his electric blue eyes, and a flash of a full mouth of baby teeth in that devil-smile, the one with the corners quirked up just so. Then he pulled Chippy from his holster, rubbed noses with him and tucked him back in, skee-daddling back to the "game" with the rest of the sibs.

Summer's just around the corner, which begs the question: "What kind of entertainment do you have in your pants?"

bucket, anyone?

i am currently laying in the lap of luxury, laptop within reach, feet propped up bathed in a cool, rose-scented breeze tickling against my bare feet as i sway in the hammock. there'sonly one thing wrong with this picture, and unfortunately it is just so very wrong. nothing can drown it out, nothing can take it away and nothing can stop it. someone please tackle the tone-deaf mutant with the karaoke mike. my ears are bleeding. somebody get that boy a bucket to carry his tune in.

a neighbor across the street (one i don't particularly care for in the first place) is having some sort of teen party; an "instead-of-prom," a graduation open house, a birthday, or maybe just a loud party of no real significance. whatever the occasion, i have heard about enough of the off-key, off-rhythm, beatles, neil diamond and tom jones i can stomach for quite some time. how do the snot-nose brats even know these songs??? the noise bleeds into my home from well over 50 yards away'and nothing we do can shut it out.

now they are pathetically trying to rap, or maybe they are among those people who only read in a monotone and therefore can't sing outside a monotone whilst reading the lyrics on the little screen. they suck so bad, half the time i can't even recognize the tune, let alone the words. why oh why are the people who cannot sing to save their lives attracted so violently to the karaoke machine??? oh and don't get even me started on the feedback......mikes+speakers =badness!!!!!!

i can't tell if they have been drinking because the singing has been steadfastly horrid for going on 4 hours now. i would love to leave just to escape the noise, but i am pretty drunk myself. i had a coupla ciders just as they were warming up and ciders stay with me for quite a while. so here i sit listening to the mad combination of simon the dog next door howling along with fragments of - i'm really trying hard to identify this....it's been 2.5 minutes and i still haven't got it yet.....they've changed songs twice and i still haven't figured them out - i'll guess that last one had the temptations backing him up. even the birds have a panicked shrillness in their chirrups. we're all going insane, one sour note at a time......