C-Lo goes Condo. Oh yah, and he needs help moving. This is where having blogger friends doesn't come in so handy. (She opens Outlook, clicks create message, "Hey RB, one, two, three, LIFT!" Send.)
Hey, buddy, are ya standing up?
Somewhere, at the foot of an ice-topped mountain, the hibernating bear stirs inside his tight bunker of boulders. As he comes to, he comes to something, to a season, maybe to a reason or to none at all. This is him coming to and coming from, in spite of her/him/her/them/ and even who and whom.
This is where he comes to in front of us. You can't find that any place else. Because this is where he went under.
At an earlier time. In another place. A mirror for Mommy. Say hello to the nice people, Honey. Spin and twirl little girl. A flash of anger, and I took it. Both barrels.
And after it all, you are left with what they gave you in the first place.
C-Lo, sweet cheerio.
And with all of this stirring conversation about blind folk, did ya stop to think that RB just gave you a name that says you can't see up high? How you gonna pack the canned salmon?