English

A few years ago, we had access to BBC America. For a short while, we got to see Goodness Gracious Me, Indian comedy in Britain. Ever the lovers of alien comedy, since mainstream American humor is so bland, mean, and obvious, we were hooked. This video of one of their sketches, Going Out for an English has been making the links round. And I have been indulging in many of their bits on the U-tyube. I don't get all the references, but worked with enough residents from Indian, and India via Britain, that it appeals even more than before. Some of it is simply silly enough.

Humor is such an ephemeral human sense, like taste, hard to pin down or explain, impossible to generalize across a population. American humor has been denigrated since the first colonial cartoonist's first dialogue balloon. British writers are always a little shocked that they have a strong, loyal American audience. There is a difference between what a group eats, and what an individual likes, what a crowd will laugh at, and what tickles an individual. When I saw movies in Army theaters, in a crowd of soldiers, I laughed at crap I would roll my eyes at seen alone. I ENJOYED Child's Play, surrounded by a raucous audience out to have a good time. Rather like a joke in a sermon, a priestly jest get laughs in church that would get a groan at any other time, in any other place, told by anybody else. And it's genuinely funny there. Just as a good MRE tastes pretty good when the alternative is a pork patty, or a tray pack. I loved white bread and margarine as a kid, especially squished into a tight wad. Just as I loved the BBC and Granada TV shows on the CBC, even if I didn't get all the subtleties, I caught the wit and intelligence, and it was different. I loved The Kids In the Hall, but that might just be a deeply Canadian sensibilities. Expectation, contrast, availability of choices.

So, Monty Python became the humor equivalent to Americans as curry to British cuisine. Not everyone likes it hot, but there are a lot of takers. A lot of folks don't appreciate having the tables turned on them, but enough do, and have the grace to be amused. The US is not a monolith, and even a small minority, now linked by the internet, can be a huge number. There is a love of the underdog that runs under the arrogance, enough of an underclass, a society of minorities and rebels laughing at the majority. And do we love to mock the smugness. Including the over-comfortable in ourselves.

We went out for Indian last night, and laughed at our own love of the "exotic," bunch of liberal snobs that we are.


It's snowing. Well, starting to rain, now. Moby is curled in his fleecy bed.

Dances

Hemp Fandango
Eggshell Shuffle
Caffeine Jitterbug
Problem-evading Polka
Worrying Waltz
Bilious Ballet
Bored Beguine
Brilliance Bolero
Buggered-up Bunny Hop
Cachexia Cakewalk
Peer Pressure Conga
Freaked out Flamenco
Clock-watching Minuet
Irony Horah
Bunched-sock Jig
Hot Coffee Lap Dance
Quitting Quadrille
Argument Reel
Crowded Train Rhumba
Short Skirt Samba
Pissed Schottische
Scratchy Tag Shimmy
Trouble Tarantella
Hot Wings Watusi
Flustered Foxtrot

No point, just playing around.

Bathtub

Moving five times within four years is a painful fact of our lives. Being called "so cute!" by the manager showing us the place is gratifying.

We will be closer in, a part of the city with sidewalks and public transportation, a hard but doable walk to work, an easy stroll to the main library, grocery store nearby. Parking. Moby welcomed. And a lot of little luxuries providing immense comfort to me. A deep, lovely bath tub. A on-site gym. Dishwasher. Better yet, washer and dryer inside the apartment. Not to mention no ice-covered outside stairs, and all the plugs will be properly grounded, unlike this place. Sun coming in from the south.

The building feels solid. We've walked enough crappy apartment buildings, we know not-solid. Not a great view, but we will look south down the valley, and be able to watch the storms approach.

A bone of comfort. Gnaw.

Hm?

Moby loves helping. And leaning.

Memoir

Six word memoir, with photo. Tag as appropriate.

Blue Light made me do it.

"Pulling loose paper off the wall."




Udge, Pacian, Moira, Mark, Jean, wanna give it six words worth?

Perfection

I laid awake with a bad song twining and snarling through my brain, and thought about an article, half read, about how quantum is only understandable through numbers, putting it in words is only a poetic interpretation. And suddenly, I imagined all those perfect atoms, as taught in chemistry classes, having dents and scratches, as all life does. And I began to wonder if those molecules and protons and electrons, quarks and sour little smidgens, were really acting as a wave or a particle when we look at them, or if the perfection is simply a matter of looking at them as a mass, but that each, in itself, is just as flawed and unique as individual flowers in a field, and as soon as we get one pinned down, we see the difference.

This is probably wrong, but what do you expect from a middle-of-the-night insight? I love the idea that perfection is not just boring, it's utterly, right down to the smallest detail, impossible and against all that we are. Rather like π, any attempt to simplify our existence into a perfect three, a perfect god, any ideal at all, is doomed to be more wrong than if we just roll with what we see at any given moment.

I had a very hard day, with too many idiots - each of whom thought themselves my boss, all telling me what to do. And I juggled fast and furious to keep it all in the air, not for their sakes, but for the sake of the patients, whose welfare I take very seriously. An armless anesthesiologist (they look like arms, but they don't do nothin'), supply carts massively mis-pulled, complicated clinical-study cases. The study folks were fine, but they added three people to an already overcrowded room. I had a great scrub tech, who sailed through in good humor, and I made sure she felt appreciated. Such a difference from the day before, when- well, I cannot remember laughing so much at work, all day long, in a very long time. Evens out.

I got a note from my Massachusetts cousin. She asked me once if I would consider writing her family story, and it's a good one. I think she should get blogging herself. A sample from her email.

"Retirement is good! Busy - doing what I don't know - but many plans. To string pearls, to mat pictures, to ship a trumpet, to microwave dirt, to rake the yard, to chase the fox, to feed the bluebirds, to ski some more, to wash the paint out of my hair  and on and on..."

Been (Photos)

Detroit, Detroit, Saudi Arabia.

Shadows (Photos)

Everyone who has a camera does it. We stand there, looking around for an image to suggest itself, and, inevitably, we look down at the most ancient fascination of our childhood. The proof that we stand between the sun and earth, and make a difference, however transitory.

When I neared high school graduation, my mother wanted to know what graduation gift I wanted. This was a surprize, since I'd never known that graduating high school merited a present. Despite the fact that my father never made it to sixth grade, and my mother quit a month before graduation to take a job as a seamstress in a truss-making company, my graduation was never held to be in doubt for me. I would graduate, or I would face certain, painful death. No question really, especially since they were paying for catholic school tuition, still barely affordable for the working poor - as we certainly were. I understood the sacrifices being made, and made them myself. I was a teenager with perhaps three music records, most of them from birthday or Christmas, not my non-existant pocket change.

The choice of special but affordable was pretty obvious, I wanted a real camera. So far, I'd only used my mother's Brownie, then the family insta-matic. I wanted to be able to play with the images more, not need a flash inside. My Obviously-I'm-Much-Smarter, and 12 year older, brother asked me what I wanted to take pictures OF. This seemed a particularly stupid question, but I tended not to assume he was wrong at that point. It wasn't that I wanted to take photos of flowers, or just architecture, or any other single thing. I wanted to take better photos, like what my eye saw when I clicked, not the washed out, over dark, glaring glossies that came back from the drug store. He loaded the first roll of film in wrong, so that it all came out black, at my expense.

I never really got good, because I hadn't considered how much film and processing would be. I made each exposure carefully, stingily, afraid to make mistakes.

When we got the digital camera, that long ago gift arrived. I played, for the first time really let go and tried anything. I adjusted photos after, the more I used it, the less each individual image cost.

Still, took pictures of my shadow. Proof enough that I am here now, ephemeral, distorted, intangible, but there, see there? For the last year or so, having a wee camera on the laptop, and taking numerous self portraits, is the other evidence, that light reflected off me bounces back to my eyes, a photograph of a mirror. This is all I have, and I find it reassuring, and amusing, a image of a reflection of a shadow streaming through my confused and bothered brain, and I call it real, and smile.

A friend sent an interview with our beloved Terry Pratchett.

Closely (Photos)

Drama

Sorry to say, I watched Untold Stories of the ER! this morning. I keep hoping it will be a better show, but it only makes me laugh aloud in derisive tones, and shout sarcasm.

The surgeon called, dramatically for a "BOOKWALTER RETRACTOR!" I know exactly what this looks like. There is a notched flat steel ring, and a series of hand sized, smooth, curved segments that will hold back the abdominal wall, usually padded with lap sponges, thick gauze with radio-opaque strips. What was shown was a square, bent, elbow sized hunk of metal that may be used as a brace to hold a truck engine, but looks like no surgical retractor I've ever seen. Not even close.

Then, another case, the ER doc shouts at the (undefined - probably nurse) to "Watch those monitors CLOSELY!" She replies meekly, "Yes, doctor!" Firstly, the request would have been stated as a request, "Keep an eye on those monitors for me, would you?" Had it been ordered dramatically, the response would have been more along the lines of, "Really? Ya THINK? No shit!" followed by a muttered "idiot." Such DRAMA. Actors, sheesh. No, folks who work with life and death, breathing and blood, get calmer the worse it gets. That's how we do it. As soon as the crisis is over, one way or the other, we make a joke, in relief or release.

D has been watching Dogfight - (about airplane battles, not dogs.) The over the top narration and music is comical, especially compared to the thoughtful, measured insouciance of the fighter pilots interviewed. I remember a British show about fighter pilots, who also spoke of their experiences without ego or bravado.

And, funny as Mike Rowe is on Dirty Jobs, his revulsion - which he does overcome, is in marked contrast to the folks who work hard, dirty jobs every day.

This was a week about odor, blood I barely notice anymore. Electrocautery of hormonal tissue is quite potent, another smell that hardly registers. Old, sick shit still smells bad, but normal healthy poop is just an odor - neither good nor bad. The surgeons were complaining of a sebaceous cyst stink, and a dermoid induced a suppressed urge to retch. But not much really gets to me. A young resident stopped by at the front desk while I was answering the phones, chatting with another nurse, and I wanted to hold my nose and run away - because he had some strong cologne that made me nauseated. Another surgeon brings his coffee into the OR (against policy), and I cannot stand the stench.

I have a weird job, and it's done weird things to my perceptions.

Curl

He's been chasing around like mad all morning, not eating, strenuously resisting any attempt at being picked up, beating the stuffing out of the wooly mice. I checked for earthquakes, and there were a few off in Wells, Nevada. Close enough to occasionally be felt here, particularly - I'm guessing, for a cat. Then he curled up next to D, and slept.

See wooly mice, chewed, and new.

Pat

Some of the distress is just newhaircutshock. When it settles down, it won't be so bothersome.

Buds

I got to stay late at work last night. No, I am not being sarcastic, I'm just glad we've been a little busier. Plus, it timed out so that I could meet the guys for dinner. D ordered for me, and I got there before the food arrived. Mind, this is a great little Chinese restaurant, none of the staff has English as a first language, and the service is not American overfast. The food itself is wonderful, well spiced, complex, fresh, genuine. I don't know how traditional, since I've never been to China, but I suspect it's closer than most. A fresh, cut up orange for dessert. Almost a dozen different teas. Shared food, lively conversation, and hope all around.

D's interview went well. N looking at new opportunities, Dave in negotiations for a job, I worked an extra half hour. Nothing sure, but the first thaw in a long, hard winter. Ok, R skipped, apparently sleeping. Damn time change.

My brain has been mushy, as I try to write about movies, and fail. Well, fail to produce enough coherent text to launch a commercial site, certainly. Holding on to the idea, pulling at the loose threads.

So, I'll plug.

Pepper has a wonderful video up of Roxy on her printer, appropriately called Cat Jam.

I once did a lot of survey work, to pay for luxuries like rent and food when I was a poor student. As a result, I will always respond to non-commercial surveys, as karmic recompense. And Kleman* left a request, politely in the comments, to respond to his survey. When I asked him if he'd like other bloggers, he gave an enthusiastic yes. It's not bad, and I'd love for the thoughtful, intelligent bloggers who come here to skew his data away from the teen/facebook bloggers. If you can take the 5-10 minutes, please do. I may well tag you for a meme about it, some of the questions provoke thought.

*I am a doctoral student in Communication Studies at Kent State University. For my doctoral dissertation, I am studying bloggers. Would you be willing to participate in my survey?

This online survey should only take about 15 minutes to complete, and it would mean the world to me. If you participate, you will be entered in a drawing to win one of 10, $20 Amazon.com gift cards. 

To participate in this study, you must be at least 18 years old, and you must currently maintain a blog that is primarily about your personal musings about your life, internal states, opinions, thoughts, or attitudes. Finally, you must write in your blog at least once a month.

If you would like to participate, please visit the following website: Survey 

Thanks so much for your help!

Sincerely,
Erin E. Kleman
Doctoral Candidate
School of Communication Studies
Kent State University
eekleman@kent.edu

Cuttings

Long ago, I took scissors to my own hair, and got berated for it. I thought I'd been clever and considerate, since I wanted to cut something, and my hair was my own.

It would not be the last time I cut my own hair, but found out that others considered this wrong, as, apparently, my hair was not, in their opinion, my own to do with as I wished.

My mother had my hair cut in a Pixie, while I wanted to grow it out, because I was to be a flower girl for my cousin's wedding. I remember distinctly, in the back seat of the car, on the way home that night, when my allowance to grow it long had been rescinded. Well, couldn't have it looking like THAT, could we?

I had my hair buzzed, during those years when hair itself seemed too stressful, stopped in the grocery store after, a stranger who had been in the barber shop approached me, asking me - as though he had a right to an answer, why I had my hair cut like a boy? I countered that he didn't know me, had no right to even ask, none of his business, and, in addition, bugger off.

One of my National Guard officers, made a point, every drill, to comment on the length of my hair, as though it mattered to her in some way. I got so that I replied with non-commital grunts.

Hair, to me, is about self determination.

I wanted, now, in my life, to have long hair. I screwed it up, and now I have to deal. Not about being bad or good, just not what I'd chosen, save by my ill-considered choices. Chose the action, chose the consequences. I am getting very irritated at how many people seem to think their opinion is more right than my own taste about how I would prefer to look, and can't. Good friends, those of you who allow that I am right - but are just assuring me it's not so bad, fine, appreciated. Those who tell me I am wrong, it's much better this way, read Carolyn Hax.

Waiting

We sat at the DMV for over 90 minutes today. After D had a bare few hours sleep last night. The time change is evil for those with insomnia. And the rest of us as well. But the ID issue had to be taken care of today, long delayed, the crunch is on. We waited, and reminisced. Because, for very few people is waiting in lines, or in concrete floored rooms, a romantic experience. And yet, for a couple who fell in love while in the military, such experiences remind us of early days in each other's company.

We have sat together on such hard floors, or inhuman metal folding chairs, waiting for our names to be called, filling out paperwork, passing time, complaining, making each other laugh. The morning after we were notified of our activation to Gulf War I, after my sleepless night and being dumped (fairly, and honorably I have to add) by the guy I'd been dating for a month, back at the armory doing all the pointlessly annoying shit the Army made us do, I grew an awful migraine. D stood in line with me, and at one point, snagged me a chair, and let me rest my throbbing head on his gas mask carrier strapped to his waist. He says he was happy to have me near, and guiltily relieved that I was available. I loved being near him, and am still grateful for a place to rest my head.

These early waits often necessitated silence together. We simply loved each other's company. And over the course of our sojourn to Saudi Arabia, we always found we preferred to be together, hungry, exhausted, cranky, in pain, annoyed or amused, dirty - at our worst, we still liked each other.

Upon arrival in that country, not knowing what our billets would be like (out in the dirt, or what), we availed ourselves of the army of Filipino barbers to shear us. I came out with a short bowl cut, and a line going around my head, buzzed below, from just above my ear to just above my ear. I have always known that D fell in love with me when I had the worst haircut of my life, I had no fears of superficial judgements. He grins at me, gazes at my hair. It's not as bad as then, I know, he tells me he loves it. Well, it is all me, no dye, no fuss.

We chatted today about mismatched couples, who seem to want the other person to complete them. We have often wondered at the trope of Horace Rumpole, of a funny guy married to She Who Must Be Obeyed - hostile to his sense of humor. Or the couple in Juno, who had no appreciation for the stability of the wife, or the 'coolness' of the husband. We still can't figure out why such people get together in the first place, blaming the artificiality of the dating procedure. Send a pair off for a year to do hard dirty work, grieve together, fix a sink, pay bills, see each other through sickness BEFORE making them vow to stay together through thick and thin. How can anyone know ahead of experience? Good couples bring their whole selves, and the partner provides a safe place for continued growth. I was in a mess when D and I got together, but I never thought he would fill my deficits. I grew around him, sheltered by him, but I wanted to bring the best of myself to us, not use him as spackle.

He thinks I'm funny. He makes me laugh. Even while waiting with children snorting and playing obnoxious electronic games behind us. Tired, cranky, we still giggle.

Sheepish

FINALLY managed to get Blooger to put up a photo. I've been trying, it kept choking.

My meagre attempts at shearing myself. Moby happy after his de-furring. My "new look" (gods, I look dowdy.) It'll grow, it'll grow.

Cut

My hair grows grey, but the old stuff, dyed and mistreated, hangs on the end. I tried to salvage, but it turns a sickly orange that glares brassily at me through the mirror, in my peripheral vision, weighing me down.

I have embraced my greying, aging hair, evidence of middle age and mortality, but I was enjoying the pension of long, neglectable tresses. My inept attempts to hurry along the process frustrate me, and I chop, and chop, and chop it away, pruning clumsily.

Now I must break my vow to never attend another salon or barbershop. I must allow a short, neat, haircut, to endure. I would buzz it all away, like a sheep on a lawn, nearly pulling it all up by the roots. But I have lived that before, knowing the shaggy awkwardness of middling growths, menopausal adolescence. And I don't want it, in the midst of financial difficulty and personal distresses.

There is no choice, though. I must tolerate a professional cut.

"Cut off all the orange, and make it neat, and I will be content. Make it fast, and I will be ecstatic." I will say to the barber, and hand over my eight dollars. I will not complain, only sigh. Long hair comforted me, but I did this to myself, screwed up, fucked up, muddled and fumbled. Now, I must correct, and endure the consequences. I've been here before, a kind of jail, or probation, I must simply accept and move on.

Like a muddy spring, a cool season of discomforts, daylight savings time too early, allergies and snowmelt dirt. I molt and itch.

Clown

Drag shows have always bothered me, insulted me as a woman being caricatured. A man showily "doing it better." Having made myself more aware of the transgendered issues and realities, I have come to accept that this is not intentional. Or at least not intended as an insult. And I connected it today to several other cultural phenomenon, a countercultural fad that has mushroomed into industrial toxicity.

There is a book called Body Drama reviewed in a 'zine left in the lounge at work, with two photos, one of a woman, the other a copy - photoshopped to create a size-one bottom. Seen alone, the second would seem normal in a women's fashion spread, next to the real one, it looks freakish, and boyish. And I began to think about uber thin models, and the prevalence of gay men in fashion. Men who would prefer girls to look more like boys, slim hipped, small busted, not a conscious choice. (Female designers, for the most part, prefer boys too.) Curvy, maternal women dressed flatteringly will never be their aim. The other side of fashion, couture - is about art, and the models are hangers for the art, so having to create livable clothes is again, not the point.

Drag queens are all about women writ large, on stage, the female that most brassily appeals to, yes, men. Not all men, certainly, but the kind of man who likes strippers and prostitutes, the obvious, for sale woman, the surface of sexual woman, and is amused and aroused by the exaggeration.

Which suddenly struck me as being akin to clowns. Clowns elicit nervous laughter, a fearful pleasure, an indulgence in stereotypes, obvious humor. Most folks these days don't like clowns, finding them creepy. Which is closer to what I have always felt about drag queens, the appeal completely lost on me. It's all about masks and surfaces, adoring the glamour and the flash, selling the sizzle, painting on a face.

I'll take my own, unadorned.

Muddy

Low water draining.
Left in sticky muddy ooze.
Spring ain't all flowers.



Called off work today. Looking for supplemental income source. Will write for cash.

Thinking about creating a commercial site, to review older movies. Separate from One Word, distinctly. Middle aged woman reviewing those films you always meant to see. What do you think?

Calm

It's been since we have lived with Moby. I have cultivated a studied quiet, to give him reason to trust us, not to be startled or fearful. Where once I would have screamed and thumped around the place because I felt frustrated, especially when alone, I now express this in a more controlled flow of calmer words or rueful laughter. Seeing my dear cat freaked and hiding - echoing my out of control fits, motivated me to change.

I'd already moved toward less rageful expressions, because D retreated at my outbursts, and expressed distress at my screaming at other drivers. As I restrained my fury, the anger itself ebbed. Venting, I came to realize, is feeding the anger monster. Anger is a choice, and a toxic one, in no small part because it spreads and splashes back from others. Frustration and worry, those are feelings. My response is always a choice.

Gentleness and polite responses, laughter, deflect anger, but take conscious effort, practice. Yesterday, I had a lot of practice, turning it into a good day.

We have orderlies that work in surgery, some are trained to be unit assistants, who do a bit more. They open supplies with the scrub, they set up the bed, help me position, run for equipment, hold the leg for me to prep. Experienced ones are a great help with total joint cases. Setting up a total hip replacement is a lot of jobs all at once, especially for a surgeon who may do eight to ten between two rooms in a day (with the assistance of a Physician's Assistant - PA). The turnover has to be fast for this to work. Delays are inevitable. The good UAs usually go on to med school, or to be PAs, which has happened recently. So when new ones train, a lot of work falls back on me. Some UAs are quicker off the mark than others.

I said please, and thank you, and what can I do for you, and that's fine, I can take care of that, many many times yesterday. In a calm and pleasant voice. To keep everyone around me calmly thinking, not add any chaos in. Which keeps my patient safe. Which allows me to laugh as I dismantle and clean the OR table after the last case.

That's when my scrub tech yesterday told me the story of two of the ortho guys, on a ski-lift, one telling the other he hoped to do five hundred joints this year. A snowboarder on the seat beside them goggled, "That's a lot! You have to have a good job to do that much."

D calls our current situation a "Perfect Storm of anxiety." In our first year back, after four yearly moves, an apartment with electrical (it's not grounded) issues necessitating another move, his overwhelming difficulties finding work (I know when he does get hired, they will love him, but getting hired is a high, spiky hurdle), health problems for both of us - his requiring surgery and ongoing therapy, resultant financial stresses (this insurance is barely adequate), my own work hours reduced due to low census - related to the slow economy. We know, if we could, that buying a house now would be a great idea. But we can't, not without having the house take us under.

So.

We hold each other, and laugh, immediately to keep Moby happy. He is our barometer, and he depends on us to be good, trustworthy people, whatever our worries. He purrs back calm.

Previously

Old meme, retagged. Well, fine.

Page 123,

Fifth sentence through eighth.

So they sat in the shade and sweated, while, about once a day, the mad smoking woman who smoked all the time came and laid ... things on a crude trestle table in front of them. The things had this in common: they were dull.

There was nothing to mine here, everyone knew. It was barren silt and sand all the way down.

And since I'm doing it again,

Page 246

Tenth through sixteenth.

"Do I detect a note of peevishmess?" said Adora Belle.

"Well, my plans for today did not include dropping in to chat with a three-hundred-year-old letch."

"I think you mean lych, and anyway he was a ghost, not a corpse."

"He was letching!"

"All in his mind," said Adora Belle. "Your mind, too."

"Normally you go crazy if people try to patronize you!"

"True. But most people aren't able to translate a language so old that even golems can hardly understand a tenth of it. Get a talent like that and it could be you getting the girls when you are three centuries dead."

(Ok, I went over, but I couldn't leave you hanging like that.)

Making Money, Terry Pratchett.

Mizithra

There is a regional chain restaurant that once served as default gathering place with food, for our circle of friends. Relatively cheap, they never batted an eye at seating five or nine or eleven people, though many of the chairs were uncomfortable in the name of quaintness. The service could be slow and difficult, water glasses were filled obsessively and over objections, other diners often broke out in the singing of Happy Birthday, abetted by the waitstaff, flash photography was common, children scampered unchecked. The menu had few real choices, spaghetti with a selection of tomato sauces, and a chicken breast entree. The Italian sodas priced beyond my meager budget at the time, although once in a while I would have a chocolate soda instead of a meal. Rich desserts that I never tried. Spumoni was included, so why would I?

And there was spaghetti with browned butter mizithra. Comfort food, the most reliable choice, since the other sauces varied in quality. Not a pretty, showy meal, but simply wonderful, warm and good.

The evening that D had his four hour surgery for the shattered elbow, kept in the hospital overnight, all those years ago, his friends gathered me up and took me there to eat, ordered this dish, and beer, for me. Refused to take no, I'm fine, really, for an answer. I loved them for their kindness. I still do. Because that was not isolated generosity, but the first glimpse into their characters.

Lately, mizithra cheese has been showing up at the local grocery store. I have not yet gathered the wherewithal to try to make it at home.

Exposed

Winds blow heavy hard small rain
earth tips away, there.
shy grey depressed grass exposed.