Drivel, written while I figure out how this blog thing works…

I run on a path near the house, early in the morning, the sun just coming up with the birds and other woodland creatures. (Except for the weiner. He sleeps in. You don’t see the weens much before eight in the morning.) It’s the old railroad tracks that covers the entire province, although I satisfy myself with a mere five kilometers of it’s splendor. (I could run the whole province, ya know, but then I’d be late for breakfast. Breakfast usually involves bacon, and I never run away from a nice slice of bacon.)

 I share the path with beavers, deer, and, I’m sure, with coyotes as well. I never see them, but I have quite graphic fantasies, as I run, of meeting one and killing it with my bare hands, bearing its dripping pelt back to my lover like a grisly offering of my undying affection. I have a love who would appreciate that type of gesture. For me, he wraps deer heart in bacon, stuffed with portobellos mushrooms who never in their wildest mushroomy dreams envisioned themselves in the still warm aorta of a wild beast. A dead coyote skin pales in comparison. Our love flourishes amid carnage and culinary delight.

But I digress.

I run on this lovely path, past the beaver dams and the deer trails, and I ponder the universe.  (Actually I usually just try to make it back to the house without collapsing, but that doesn’t sound very literary. Universe pondering is a much more author-ly passtime, and I am trying rather hard these days to be author-ly.  Which is a word, thank you very much.)

Today I pondered two things.

One: Since turning forty-five my fat deposits are trying to rule my life.


Two: I like red wine too much to go running at six in the morning.

The fat deposits jiggled along with me as I ran, creating a kind of turbo-force wind tunnel in my wake which I was sure would suck in any wily coyote stalking me, rendering him too weak with vertigo to attack. The foggy tendrils of red wine still seeping through my veins from the night before set up a dull throb in my temples which forced me to slow down enough that I was guaranteed not to sweat too much. The fat doesn’t like it when I sweat.  That’s why it’s in league with the red wine.  This is the destiny of my middle age… get drunk, get fat, don’t sweat, kill coyotes with bare hands.

Not bad, really, as long as I keep pondering the universe at the same time.

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