maybe Oxford Depot received more snow than Monroe
snow blower! all it needs is an old guy in a suit standing in front of it, timeless
but first, this sad little guy who went and got himself caught and stuffed by someone over at Etsy, and made fun of over at Regretsy, as apposed to Craftastrophie
rather beautifully crafted though don'tcha think, almost life like~i like to pretend the artist, just finds road kill, and doesn't actively hunt squirrel, although i have~ and it is very hard
and now for the weather~ fuck yeah, orange county new york just go buried, 31 inches in Monroe, that black thing is not an orca but a giant dodge pick up truck and behind it is an airstream trailer
Pucci our rabid reporter and photographer sent these out, she's trapped at home, the roads are closed and the state police are shooting at anyone caught trying to drive
i'd like to leap off the roof in perfect form to land a 10 face plant~ tunnel around the woods with the kids, go sleigh riding at the golf course walk downtown and get a couple of slices of pizza at Bruno Bros.
Pucci told me a funny story about the last storm she could remember ever being this huge and deep, and how we had to walk to town to try to get to Goshen to open the grocery store we used to own, why we had to open a grocery store in a blizzard~ i can't answer~ maybe i can~ people really need ciggy's and beer with potato chips addiction, so we all walked to town and i being a little dork, somehow found a rubber finger, and spent the whole day sticking it up my nose and in peoples faces and in my ear and eyes, in my zipper, laughing and carrying on~ as a complete spaz~ but the buses weren't running and we had to walk home and i can't remember a single molecule of this story~
was i there ? i ask, because you know, i can't remember a single event of this life, it's all gone, i need to go get hypnotized to bring it all out~ but why~ what is a life if you can't remember it, from here deep in my own future, today is all encompassing, and tomorrow is touchable~
but, crap where'd it all go, these childhood events, shit i must have been 14, 15, maybe sixteen, that winter, what the hell, i should know this~
that's what a blog, a journal, and photography are for~ to force memories, to exist, a crutch, but then are the memories the real memory or just the memory of a photo. . .