Buzz buzz buzz
Tonight, I will let images inspire me in so much as they're inspiring. Hard to say. I'm tired tonight and my hips ache - mostly because they were made to assume deep dragon pose, and told to breathe through it. Labour pain it's not quite, but close - the women who were in the class said so so don't go jumping down my throat about not knowing, or co-opting another gender's unique experience.

Pretty little sunflower - actually not that little, this was a big one the size of Dr. J's head - growing in Kaslo a few years back. Oh goodness, the simplicity of Kaslo - at least it seems simple, but I'm quite sure it's not. Much like Peyton Place, or the village in which Miss Marple lives, Buzzard upon Leighton or some such place, it's probably seething and simply heaving with any manner of human drama and cesspit vices. Miss Marple has always said, and I quite agree, that human nature is the same everywhere, but in a small village, you have better opportunities to observe it. Not sure why sunflowers bring to mind human nature, but there it is.

Porter looks askance, but never casts aspersions
Porter, to the right, is a gorgeous dog. He's black, sleek, silent and gentle except when it comes to squirrels - which is the way it should be. Like a silent shadow, he follows Mr. Boo faithfully everywhere, and lays his head on your knee when he's tired, or simply wants attention. I was hoping that Porter would visit back in October, as he would have loved going to the beach and chasing waves. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. Ah well, I'm sure he enjoyed chasing down doggie treats at J's place instead. Never mind, someday, when I'm ready and know it, I'll have my own Porter and he shall be trained to climb walls, and chase seagulls. See if he doesn't.

Running up that hill like there's no tomorrow
The little one, not so little now, ran up a hill a few years back while the sun cast shadows (not asparagus) behind her. I remember that trip because we ran around the playground over and over and over till we became dizzy. Then with the energy of the young, she ran up hills while I followed at a more sedate pace. I suppose, what I'm thinking of is that it can be an uphill struggle. I went looking for inspiration this morning and found a paper trail that was being clipped, and e-mails that missed the point by being factual - sounds wrong, but it's true. There are times when you give up the battle to win the war, but no, they didn't know this, and into battle they went - with me. I ignored the prods and pokes and merely re-stated my position. We shall see what fresh horrors await when I step through those glass doors. Lord, were it possible that I only step through my  own glass doors into an soft atmosphere of warmth, scent and muted colour. Unfortunately, this is the case, and the glass doors I step through make me think of air becoming glass, and glass becoming air, as is the case when you run towards a window on a high floor, and go crashing through the glass and to your death below. This imagery from Salman Rushdie's "The Enchantress of Florence". Lovely, lovely, lovely writing.

Best to let sleeping dogs lie even when surrounded by rabid squirrels

Goodness, I'm tired today. Physically and mentally, and yet social mores take over when I meet relative strangers. You smile, you make small talk, and at the same time, a little bit of you dies inside - okay, maybe not that dramatic, but you do taste a little bit of vomit coming up your throat - okay, maybe not vomit, but sour milk - which really amounts to the same thing. I think I've done all that I can for today. There were a number of small little tasks - the sum of which hopefully is a huge endeavour - that had to be completed today. I ticked most of them off despite being sleepy most of the day. Now, I'm even sleepier, and my hips are complaining ever more vociferously. So I think I shall go to bed, but only after I've taken a lovely orange pill what kills the pain for a while and maybe then I'll sleep well and dream about my favourite hedgehog standing up on a tree stump making small talk. This would be much better than having half-dreams which hint at inner glimpses of one hidden self, which by their very nature demand to be analysed. I don't have the time, energy, nor the desire to analyse at the moment. I'd much rather hark back to the days when I gave JR rides back to his student hovel where 8 people lived in a 3-bedroom house, and we had semi-philosophical discussions about whether there was any difference in outlooks when you adapted readily to your circumstances, or you accepted the circumstances. Adapting or accepting - which is better, or do they amount to the same thing in the end? Fate - such a funny thing - so immutable, yet so varied.