Something in the water is making the hair grow overnight.

The conditions are just right.  Everyone’s got out their holiday lights.  Yet, I’m still left wondering where in December’s name is the snow?

Pillowed by the wind, painted by the light; I lay my head in the clouds, forgetting the day’s toil and strife.

I guess I could write about the ramifications of the existence of the physical world beyond our perceptions.  Or how little we are actually aware of due to our limitations of seeing the entire spectrum of light.  But, all I can think of is that this must be what the Predator sees when participating in a photo shoot with yours truly.

In the age of the pixel, personal computer, and processor our environments adapt and become a cruel, computerized reflection of reality.  Even the paint gently flaking off of the old rain barrel in a rudimentary pixel by pixel fashion adheres to the laws sent down by IBM, Intel, and Microsoft.

A 2011 Christmas Blessing:

May the light of a thousand stars guide you through the holiday shopping madness.  May the warmth of the yule log serve as a beacon home when interacting with rabid christmas consumers.  And, may the plastic nativity scene in the neighbor’s yard remind us all that our indulgences this year in no way reflect whatever true meaning of christmas is left in our society.

Saving for next year and postponing holiday indulgences for a warmer day.

Perhaps its steady diet of cartoons I was fed as a kid that makes me want to tie any spring I see to the bottom of my feet and jump around.  Though I know from past experiences and experiments that this will never work, there is always a part of me willing to attempt the improbable.  The promising thrill of an imagined success coupled with a nostalgia for all things looney keeps me trying.

They put it there for field decor.  A tornado dropped it there.  It was a play house for the Anderson kids years ago.  We had to get the squatters out of the barn so we bought an old electric car.  However the story line begins the reasoning always is flawed to some degree and I am left wondering how the “No Parking Fuss” bus came to find its final resting place in a grass field near Richfield.

Ruff. Bark. Rough bark.