Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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   not those neural circuits
Tuesday, July 19 2011

Now that I know about the explosions down in the corn fields, I can hear them clearly even back at the house (over a mile from the nearest bird cannon). Today I found them distracting me and tying up important neural circuits, though not the kind that enable me to assemble burritos or fussily weed my new asparagus patch. (I have eight or nine asparagus seedlings, some of which are a couple inches tall.)
At some point Gretchen returned from the city and soon thereafter, in response to the ongoing heatwave, we drove to a swimming hole. It was one we'd never been to before named Big Deep and it was on Sawkill Creek just east of Woodstock. There's an unmarked road to it across 212 from Gallo's Nursery. You drive a short way down that road and park among the trees. The swimming hole is short walk from there. It's surprisingly big: a pooled section of the creek the size of a large swimming pool with a considerable fraction over six feet in depth. At this point in its valley, the Sawkill seems to have run into a ledge of resistant bedrock that had narrowed its options and caused it to partially dam up (an effect further assisted by visitors who had piled up stones). It was the middle of a workday, but there were over a dozen people there and two dogs in addition to the ones we'd brought. Eleanor diligently swam across the creek whenever necessary (she looked like a muskrat as she did so), but Sally usually had to be towed half way across, as she always has a mind of her own. We were at the swimming hole for over an hour, lowering our core body temperatures so as to better face the rest of the day.

With Gretchen back, we finally got a chance to watch the first episode of this season's Breaking Bad, which has been burning a hole in our DVR since Sunday.


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