it isn't the size
of your wallet or anything else
that defines you
it makes no difference if you're rich or poor
money never mattered to me
nothing more than paper dyed green-ish
(more) just another form of grease to keep the wheels moving
burn it up for all I care
there's nothing you could buy me
no jewels or furs or far-away dreams fill my fantasies
breathing is enough to make my boat float
and you breathe so well
There was a quick flash of white branches in the headlights, and then the rush of dark fur which made its way into the brush. The driver got out: "Moose", and he pulled the flashlight out of his backpack, walked into the dark wild and went looking for said creature.(more) We'd nailed it pretty good, but he heard no low moans, found no bleeding carcass. So we pulled the fender up by the last fiberglass hairs, brought it on board, inspecting the coarse brown fur that had become woven into the rough edge.
Next morning, we rode in a yellow bus with stitches of silver and black tape, and when we explained with some excitement to the locals that we'd hit a moose they asked if we'd eaten it.
The northwest coast of Newfoundland is a scrappy place inhabited by descendants of the Irish who had come there hundreds of years before. It is hard to make ends meet, and those whose ancestors have been fishing the island have native rights, entitling them to trees and fish and seals. And moose and caribou, which they preserve in mason jars and eat through the winter, along with cabbages, pickled beets and wild raspberry jam.
We went to a gymnasium to say hello to a few dozen grade school students. We announced our home states, along with a fact about the place. "California," I said, "Where the tallest trees in the world grow," avoiding the cliche of Golden Gate.
The day before I had met a scabby tree that looked like a snake, with a trunk a couple of inches in diameter. It was three hundred years old, and was moving toward the flat sheets of serpentine, flecks of green in a martian landscape. Height is only one thing to brag about.
The common Oregonian moose is actually a deer, or a homeless woman with wires bent strange on a hat on her head, or that shopping cart left in the middle of the intersection with all of someone's essential items.
yesterday the 4th and washington woman with the pizz(more)a box sign that read something entirely indecipherable stepped into the intersection, traffic brushing past her on both sides; a stampede of elephants, a parade of speed boats.
yesterday, she used her sign as a shield, cocked her hat sideways so it wouldn't fall.
she dodged blaring horns and cursing drivers on both sides of the median.
laps. she was doing laps across the 4 lanes. zig zagging across. if she was swimming, trying to hold her head above water and count breaths she didn't take, if she was just trying to make it, she was doing a sloppy job at it.
who swims like that?
once the light turned red and all the cars froze, she did jumping jacks between the cars, danced the Horah around SUVs.
the light turned and she started her dance again, all elbows and knees and swooping in with the arms.
she cried out, "hey! hey! hey!" and clapped her hands. Was she at a hassidic wedding?
it was funny. an old man laughed behind the wheel of an old datsun, but when the light turned, he forgot about her and gunned it.
anyone know what plot is?
is it the thing that the story line is built on?
i know i know! its the end.
the woman in the intersection. is she the protagonist or antagonist? what about the cars?