The Joys of Children are Functions of the Woods

We're getting there... it's premature. Tasty.

The joys of children are functions of the woods.

of course, learn to despise ourselves and fear the respect the tyrannosaurus, you’d be a breaker or to destroy it – you cannot because of the obvious physical mine.

I always preferred to play in maybe, and less capable.

I was secretly this day a role-model of sorts, and the things.

“Well, to be brought before a tribunal selected by the board of jurisdiction is more than sufficient to draw out legal crows.”

four or so hours into the perfunctory, drinking slow but steady, all were employees, or colleagues, as head office prefer to call all the cooking done and dusted, and sat at the directors.

feared of course – but don’t become fearmongers.

they are a force to be dinosaurs; at the museum were skeletons, but dinosaurs were never a great passion there is imbalance and madness as it was a scavenger; I can empathise far there’s more ways to move out of settlements; there was some serious which was great.

I love madness and reject pterodactyl.

STAGE 3:

And the things.

“well, to be brought directors.

feared of course – but don’t secretly this day a role-model of sorts, jurisdiction is more than sufficient to into the perfunctory, drinking slow but more ways to move out of settlements; destroy it – you cannot because of the obvious physical mine.

I always preferred woods.

of course, learn to despise the joys of children are functions of the as head office prefer to call all the be dinosaurs at the museum were skeletons, before a tribunal selected by the board of steady, all were employees, or colleagues, scavenger; I can empathise far there’s cooking done and dusted, and sat at the draw out legal crows.”

four or so hours but dinosaurs were never a great passion there was some serious which was great.

I become fearmongers.

they are a force to tyrannosaurus, you’d be a breaker or to love madness and reject pterodactyl. there is imbalance and madness as it was to play in maybe, and less capable.

I was ourselves and fear the respect the…

The Court of King Jelly Roll

In Bacchus’ name, lift up your spoons, for the season approacheth, little things. Even now, the reupholsterers are reupholstering chairs, purple and green. The physicians are smiling, the ladies are moist. King Jelly Roll is better, thanks be to God. The dead are buried, the table is set. Put on your hats and saddle your horses, for King Jelly Roll’s court is reconvened. The frosty veil is lifted, so come, the embarrassed and regretful, take off your clothes and thrash about wildly, in the manner of a boar in the throes of death. For, in faith, the winter’s boar does die for the summer’s pork. The thin gander swears an oath, and the fool is in the mixture. Shoots are shooting, boots are new, but the ceremony will be a barefoot affair. Do not sit down by the roadside facing the hedgerow when all the world is dead, and everything in it. For, in faith, that is the time to put your hand in your trousers, and the rod and the staff shall comfort you. The road is well lit, and is not very long. In the circle, four English leagues west of the wood where tall wolves groan, four English leagues north of the marsh where grass snakes consider, four English leagues east of the plain where women wish, four English leagues south of the bay where cormorants swoop at the backs of fishermen, the festival will be met. Forthwith, then, to the circle; wrap your wife in ivy. The leopard that was in the tree now stands on one leg in the centre of the circle, and, in faith, the tree stands proud on the leopard’s back. The nephews beloved of King Jelly Roll stand at the trestles of the five innermost tables, and no rope can bind them. The attendant nymphs shine like berries. From the nub of the mound, even now the first of the guests can be seen approaching. First among them is Brutus, and not least among them, Gog and Magog. King Jelly Roll has risen from his mossy sickbed. So lift up your spoons, in Bacchus’ name, for the feast.

Playing With Dinosaurs

Dinosaurs were never a great passion of mine; I never quite fit that archetype. I didn’t, don’t and never will dislike them by any means, far from it, I’ve always had a real fondness for the things. There was the red tyrannosaurus rex that wouldn’t fill with water because his throat was sealed. The dinosaurs at the museum were skeletons, which was great. The tyrannosaurus made for an imposing figure, all teeth and tail and what have you; you had to respect the tyrannosaurus, you’d be a fool not to. This was before I knew he was a scavenger; I can empathise far more readily now. He was never my favourite, though. The stegosaurus is to this day a role-model of sorts, and the pterodactyl is a far out lizard-bird. Excellent skeletons too; the pterodactyl was suspended from the ceiling. I’ll always love skeletons. I liked the diplodocus’s neck, still do sometimes, but dinosaurs were never a great passion of mine. I always preferred to play in the woods. They were much bigger in those days, and darker.

Of course, it wasn’t playing; it was, dare I say it, adventure. Disbelief wasn’t a concept I was familiar with, and I’m not a great fan of it now. There was never much doubt that we’d find gold eventually, or the ghost train in the old abandoned tunnel. Our camps were bona fide settlements; there was some serious improvised engineering a little later on, and I’d be proud of it now. Prouder, maybe, and less capable. I was secretly rather excited at the thought of the gypsy girl who lured little boys off to an unspecified fate out there in the woods. Never did encounter her, though, more’s the pity.

Is it true that all such things, the dinosaurs, the woods, are part of what makes an adult, that’s to say, a fully grown human, to whatever degree of development, and that that’s their principal purpose? That the inquisitiveness, the naked wonder and the joy of children are functions of the formative years? I think someone told me something like that somewhere, sometime. I’m thinking about that red tyrannosaurus now (I called him The Tyrannosaurus). I don’t want my throat to be sealed.

Black Olives: The Anatomy of Joy

I've never really been one for the black olive in the general existential hum drum, but stick 'em on a pizza, I'll drink 'em like gravy. The red grape's like that too. Eat one? Well, naturally I will (it's a while since I have) but I'd rather have a white one. At least I think that's the case, as it's a while since I had a red one; I'm not really a one for fruit, truthfully. So, yes, wine anyway - red every time, without equivocation, except with certain cheeses, though I forget which. I don't tend to be a one for eating and drinking in the same three minute period, truthfully.

What to surmise? Well, there's a process, certainly. That would explain it. And it does explain it. Black, Green; Red, White. Something happens, and I like it.

Were they fruit, I expect I could love these walls.

Discuss.