I was trying to move fiction around tonight, and it just seemed pointless. I can't remember when I last wrote any, and tonight the entire experiment seems like some weird aberration.

I tried to fall back to the fact that even when I am not writing, I want to be - but it wasn't there. Why should I want to write when I have nothing to say? Looks over recent journal entries, and wonders if it's just fiction or if I should be more inclusive.

Is this some late night unsettling? Does it hit and run and leave you wondering in the morning what the hell was that about? or was the writing the unreal moment?

Perhaps I will know in the morning.

if mercury can be retro, so can I

I have been going through some old slides, scanning them for files and searching for shots of the worst bathing cap in the world. (So far I can only find the second worst)

But it may rain retro spam as I go---




this is my first camera - I just wanted to show it off to Annaliese

It is a brownie, though in my case, it is green. Look at the way I spread my fingers - I have never outgrown that.

1959, possibly 60 - ballet shoes and cowboy hat (from which I have photo erased the dreaded nickname only my grandfather was allowed to call me) You wouldn't think I would willingly wear plaid pants when I spent my days in a catholic school uniform, but I think this was before the plaid uniform, when we were wearing green jumpers and yellow ankle socks with the BVM embroidered on them (can you imagine - yellow lace andthe blessed mother!) with green string ties clipped with a miraculous medal. I went to Queen Of The Most Holy Rosary, and yes, I can still sing you my school song, so best if you don't ask.




My Grandfather worked for Bordens in the cold rooms, and driving the truck to deliver ice cream at night. I am on that schedule still.

Again, I think this is 1959 - Elsie, the Borden Cow and Elmer the Bull (you can still see Elmer on the Elmer's Glue bottle, but I don't know if Elsie still appears anywhere) had twin calves, and the Borden families were allowed to go see them. I think they were destined for logo status as well, but it never took off. The barn was beautiful, all golden wood and warm smells. Behind me, just past the very contemporary horse head, you can see Elsie's neck as she forages in the feed box, and yes she really is wearing the daisies around her neck just like the drawings of her. I don't know why she never ate them - maybe they were plastic.

Another perk of being a Borden family was that you could buy things that were never produced commercially - for my birthday parties as a kid, my Grandfather would bring home ice creams in the shapes of racing cars, boats, horses...

When Jim notarysojac and I first moved to NJ, he was working on the Tokamak Fusion project at Princeton, and we lived near the Walker-Gordon farm where Elsie had been born. Her grave stone is still available to visit, though I think the farm recently was sold. It shows her -real- name, "You'll Do, Lobelia."