Monday, May 14, 2007

The weather is getting somewhat better. The clouds, in the morning, broke up to reveal a beautifully bright sky of velvety shimmers that seemed as fragile as dandelion seeds in the wind. Thankfully, the blue sky held. After eating a lunch of pasta, salmon, and black cherry juice, we set off on an expedition for the awe-inspiring, ballad-worthy, Nike Park. A fearsome place full of rough bushes and thorns, we found ourselves soon in the midst of a hopeless labyrinth deep in the tangles of the forest chasm looking onto multiple layers of rapidly--too rapidly for us poor travelers’ tastes--falling onto the ground below. We hiked about a bit, and, after finding our legs substantially stung, our faces whipped and weather-beaten (as much weather-beaten as faces could get under the canopies of trees), we found ourselves at a fence with barbed wire set in a jaunty pattern atop the wiring. Adrianna made dark suggestions we ought to go back, while our mother obstinately pushed forth. Finally, a combination of both led us out into a neighborhood we recognized for trick-or-treating, and, shamefully, we realized we were only a little bit away from Nike Park. The fearsome forest had not been so large as we thought. Ah! My dreams of glory in the ballads of old, floating away like a battered newspaper in a gale. Oh, I suppose it would not be pleasant for some spelunkers in a new civilization to find our bones, the forgotten fodder of a cold case, lost in some forest.
I grudgingly suppose.
Now, I enter, no doubt this word shall strike dread into the hearts of some-- Technology. Recently I have installed the "Microsoft One Note" software on my computer. A most wondrous thing, one can write on it, rather like the application "Paint" but with templates and notebook lines. And as to my new email, the reason I give for this seemingly wanton charge into the fiery depths of new email accounts, good Marshal of the Joust, is that my old account has one thousand two hundred and fifty three emails in it (mostly Doctor Dictionary "words of the day"), and the new email gives me a lot--a lot--of storage space. Most irritating, however, one must receive permissions this and permissions that from adults, every single time you try to sign in, so attempting to send the urgent "yeah, maybe, no, I don't recall, okay," message isn't going to work unless you have your parents' permission and their credit card number, Mr. President. Not only did this indignity make sore my already ruffled mind, I was approached with the ever-present, never-comforting dilemma of breaking internet connections. Internet connection is difficult with a wireless card--one must choose from the unencrypted Linksys, the mysterious Edward, or the unreliable pack-of-numbers connection nobody on the planet has--or ever shall--care to remember, except the makers themselves. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...this is the way of the earth in some ways, perhaps, and there is no escaping it.
In any case, enough of tales of heroism in the depths of fearsome forests. I have a compulsive feeling in my stomach I need some ice cream. And my mother, no doubt, has a compulsive feeling I need to get to bed.


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