City Life

Table of Enough

Butternut Squash Risotto

Today is Thanksgiving here in the US. I was going to muse on why we still celebrate this holiday–a holiday that continues to glamorize Native American genocide, food waste, shopping for shit we don’t need, and canned cream of mushroom soup. I’ve posted about being tired of the tremendous amount of work to prepare and cook for this holiday for the past few years. I’ve said how much I used to love this day, but haven’t in a while. Yes, every year I swear never again, and yet here I am, one eye on the clock because the shelves in my fridge are warping under the weight of foods waiting to be cooked.

I was going to muse about what America means. President Obama tells us these hideous pronouncements of wall building and turning our backs on refugees aren’t what we stand for. I like Obama, I like what he stands for, and I agree that it shouldn’t be. But let’s be honest, America has a long history of fighting to reject immigrants and refugees, an even longer history of racism.

If you are someone who believes “freedom of religion” includes all religions, if you believe “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” is still valid today, this is an exhausting and often disheartening time. I still hear people moaning that only English should be spoken in America. Sigh. English is the language of the US, and it doesn’t take a damned thing away from anyone when other languages are also spoken. Not only doesn’t it take anything away, it’s a bonus. “Global community” isn’t just a phrase for Facebook and college admissions essays.

The thing is, sappy as it might sound, I still love the idea of Thanksgiving. The sentiment of it, anyway. I like the idea of a day to stop and pay attention to the privilege of enough to eat, having people in our lives whom we love and love us. Should having enough to eat be a privilege? I don’t think so, but it is. I know it is when I look at the photos of the Syrian refugee camps. I know it is when I walk down the streets and through the subways, seeing those who are homeless and hungry. My children have attended schools with classmates who live in mansions, brownstones, projects, and shelters. When you know this, when you know the kiddo waiting for their turn with the brown crayon right next to your kiddo, sharing Saltines and apple juice with your kiddo, isn’t going home to a full table, it isn’t theoretical. Yes, yes, we should all give thanks every day for what we have, but really, many of us don’t.

I’m not going to post a million Thanksgiving food pictures. Have faith, Fringelings, my cranberries are glistening in their zinfandel bath and the skin on my pernìl is crisped just so. I will post a few pics from the past weeks that make me smile, and hope they do the same for you.

Love when I luck into a decent shot of the moon.

This guy comes to visit me regularly, but I suspect he’s going to fly south soon.

zoanthid colony in the tank.

Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and if not, happy Thursday.

Could You Repeat the Question?

I seem to have lost my train of thought down in the subway tunnels.

I know, I’ve been quiet. You could go so far as to say absent–doing what I have to do, and not a syllable more.

It’s a funny thing. I’ve heard writing described like a muscle, the more you do it/use it, the more you can write, higher word count and more effective. The same is true in reverse. Not working on a novel led to not working on anything fiction, to not reading fiction, to not blogging because what the hell, is anyone actually reading my words anyway? Despite my descent into sniveling, I’ve received several nudges in the form of notes and emails over the past couple of weeks from people wondering where I am (thank you!), reminding me there are people out there who read Mrs Fringe. If this post is a bit scattered, keep in mind that my writing muscles are a bit stiff.

By now, most days I’m on autopilot for the commute. Some days I can fully appreciate the opportunity to hear some fine musicians, find a dollar at the bottom of my bag for one of the all-too-many ragged and hungry homeless who are walking those tunnels without benefit of a coat–sometimes not even shoes, note some characters (and quirks) for future writing endeavors, and some days, well,

some days I wonder if I’m going to be humping that 3rd rail after another few years of twelve trains a day.

So where I’ve been is here, and what I’ve been doing is adhering to the if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say rule. What makes me come out of cyber-hiding today? My absolute embarrassment at being a member of the human race right now. Much as I’d like to be a Time Lord; I have no Tardis, only one heart, only one life, and am in fact limited by time and space. We won’t even mention the effects of gravity. Same as everyone else on this earth.

But everywhere I look these past few days, I see and hear people playing the my-god-is better-than-your-god game, naturally followed by my-life-is-more-valuable-than-yours. Last week’s attacks in Paris more than ramped up the worldwide conversation about the Syrian refugees, where they can go, who will take them in, why anyone should. The attacks in Paris were horrendous, despicable, the result of fear and hatred. Every act of terrorism is horrific, be it domestic or international.

I’ve read many theories on what to do in order to combat terrorism. Some of those theories sound good, others make no sense to me at all. Not being an expert in international relations or politics, I can’t begin to think that I know the best thing to do in order to neutralize (is that the right word?) Isis/Isil/Daesh. Here’s what I do know. They are a small group of dangerous nut jobs. I said it. SMALL. And they do not, in my expert opinion as a human being residing on the one and only planet we humans can currently reside on, justify turning our backs on the millions of Syrian refugees who have had to flee from their home.

We, as human beings, have documented waves of refugees (most, if not all, because of religious persecution) dating back to BC times. Israelites, Huguenots, Muhacirs, Russian Jews, Belgians, Serbians, Armenians, Jews from Eastern and Western Europe during WWII, Palestinians, Ugandans, Cubans, Balkans, Rwandans, Sudanese, Iraqis, and now Syrians. I’m certain I’ve missed many, and I’m certain the Syrians won’t be the last. Is there a group, a religion, a nationality that hasn’t been persecuted?–and many have had their turn as the persecutors, as well. With all this experience, shouldn’t we, as one human race, be able to recognize each other as fellow humans and respond with compassion, instead of reacting with fear and walls and bigotry? Given the planet’s population, global climate change, and bigger and better weaponry, I would guess waves of displaced peoples will increase with time. (Unless we eliminate borders.)

I’m not naive, I understand there are problems, logistical and otherwise that come with large numbers of refugees. But the biggest problem I see is clinging to hatred and xenophobia, pretending that it isn’t “our” problem.

The other day I was on a crowded train and spotted an empty seat next to a woman wearing a niqab. You know what I did? I sat down.

Holy Papal Visit, Batman–Gotham’s a Mess!

Look up, look down, but whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

In case you’re an American who doesn’t know because you’re oh…dead and buried in a hidden cave, Pope Francis is in town. Now, I like this pope, I like the things he says, I like the things he does even more, and I think he’ll make great strides worldwide with his emphasis on humanity, compassion, and service. I’m happy for those who are thrilled for the opportunity to see him and hear him speak.

But for the love of all, could you learn how to train before you walk into the subway? The stations and the train lines are all packed, overflowing with papal tourists and delays. This morning I think I saw every outer borough character I’ve ever written.

On the Shuttle:

“Mary, there’s a seat, go sit down.”

Mary clamps her lips together and shakes her head so hard her pin curls are quivering.

“You don’t like that seat? I’ll sit instead of you.”

“I don’t want any seat, Timothy, not just that seat.”

Timothy turns to the man in the seat next to him. “I only ride the train once every ten years or so, what about you?”

Man next to him lifts one side of his headphones, “Every day.”

“You must have a lot of extra time on your hands. What does it take you, hours to do your hair like that every day?”

Man touches his dreadlocks, looks across at me (guess I’ve got the stamp of a regular subway rider tattooed on my face), and laughs. “I do it while I’m on the trains.”

***

On the platform:

“Steven!! Get away from the edge, you’re going to fall in!”

***

“Oh my GAWD, is that a rat?”

***

“Is it always so hot in here?”

***

On the 2:

Group of senior women in their very best rhinestone studded Juicy Couture, talking at a young man in workout gear. “I’m tellin ya, they’ve got the best pizza on 18th Avenue, you’ve gotta go to Brooklyn.”

“Uh, ok, thanks.”

“Whaddya telling him that for, Rosemary? Don’t listen to her, honey, you’ve gotta go for the clams at Campagnoli’s.”

Pained nod from the young man.

All four lean in to him before they get off the train. “With spaghetti!”

***

There’re two things regular NYC subway riders get every day, and one of those is religion. Jehovah’s Witnesses seem to be the most organized, tables set up and staffed at many stations, 3 in Grand Central, politely waiting for those who appear interested. Many different Christian denominations can be found with signs and pamphlets. Every so often, outside the stations there’ll be a group of Orthodox Jewish men, offering…baptisms? conversions? in trailers. Last week there was a group of off-key Hare Krishnas singing and soliciting donations, bright marigold robes practically glowing in the tunnels. Then of course there are those there to alert us to Armageddon.

What exactly is a whoremonger, anyway?

The other thing you get in the subways daily? Music. Often great music. I’ll admit, I’m not into the guys who’ve made instruments out of saws and violin bows, but they have their followers. And it would be fine if the trumpets would hold off until, say, 10am. But yeah, music is the perk of a sizable commute on and around the trains.

I love when these guys pop in.

Yes indeed, that’s the back of a one-man-band. An optimistic one, with a 5-gallon Home Depot bucket for a tip jar.

I know, I know, for most visiting today it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, an honor. Couldn’t they have scheduled this for one of the two days off the public schools had this week?

Happy Friday, Fringelings.

Washing the Dust Off

The purpose of art is washing the daily dust off of our souls~Pablo Picasso

After the fiasco of our adventures on Friday I was more than ready for a good day. So, on Sunday afternoon, Husband’s cousin, Miss Sweet Heart, met Man Child, Art Child and I at our apartment and we headed downtown to the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit. Yes, Art Child and I went a few months ago (the show is put on twice a year, Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend) but it’s well worth revisiting. Some of the artists are the same (new work and old) and others were new to us.

Man Child and Miss Sweet Heart haven’t seen each other in a couple of years, so that alone made the day beautiful. Add in a day trip, trains that ran on time, art that is exciting and inspiring, generous artists, and it was damn near perfect. One of the things that made it so special was that several of the artists we chatted with last time remembered Art Child. Made her day, and mine. I’m continually impressed by how many in the art community are willing to take and make time for a young artist, offer ideas and encouragement.

Remember the artist with the amazing tree-woman sculpture last time? Anthony Santella was back with new work. I didn’t think anything could be more perfect than the last bust I posted photos of, but I was mistaken. Last time we saw him at the WSAOE, he gifted Art Child with a nail-studded heart he had carved, it holds a place of honor on her desk. Turns out he blogged about meeting her. Hmm, for some reason the link doesn’t take you directly to the post. From the about page, click on his blog, and then May 2015 in his archives, Sunday, May 24th, Day #144 of #MakeArt365. (Spend time checking out his site, well worth it.) Me, blabberfingers extraordinaire, can’t find the words for how beautiful it is to see my girl in this setting, with adult artists taking her and her work seriously, no one caring (in a good way) about academics, neurological status, sluggish reflexes, size, blah, blah, blah.

Isn’t she wonderful?

Out of budget for us, but oh how I wish.

Looking at the sculpture above got my mind racing, how could I write her into Wanna-Bees, change a character? add a new one? I was about to ask Mr. Santella if he would mind if I “wrote her,” but then I didn’t. I’m just not ready to write.

Besides the wood sculptures, he has paintings and smaller sculptures made from 3-D printing. Art Child purchased one of his paintings from a group he had tucked away, older works. Funny enough, she was drawn to those he made when not much older than she, and still in high school. I bought a little 3D printed woman, maybe 2 1/2 inches with the base. She’s looking down at me from the shelf over my desk now.

The lighting is too harsh in this photo, but it highlights the details.

Tomorrow the craziness of a new school year for the girl will begin. Thank you for letting us wash the dust off, and start fresh.

Sunrise from the terrace this morning.

First Time for Everything

Labor Day weekend, the last hoo-rah of summer. I really, really wanted to squeeze in one more beach day, and not over the three day weekend, because the sand is impossibly crowded on these days. Greedy, right? I have enjoyed quite a few beach days this summer, all of them lovely, was at the NJ beach for an afternoon earlier in the week and of course, an entire week of vacationing on the beach down south. But, one more on “my” beach in Brooklyn sounded irresistible, especially because Man Child is here. He hasn’t been able to enjoy many beach days over the last few years, and I’m enjoying spending some days with him before he flies off overseas.

Of course I noticed the clouds as Art Child, Man Child and I walked to the subway, but there was no hint of rain, nothing that seemed threatening, we had actually gotten out of the apartment by 10am (we’d get good spots near the water!) and when you’re lying on the sand a few clouds can offer a bit of respite from the sun. And of course it was windy when we got off the train, but the weather is always a bit different when you’re actually on the beach. Besides, I kind of like those days, where it’s just me and the other diehards.

Oh.My.God. It was a fucking sandstorm on the beaches of south Brooklyn. First, we teamed up and wrestled the wind to get our towels down. We laid them close together, so we could pool bags and flip-flops to keep them anchored. Man Child’s went first, and by the time we secured all four corners, the towel was half covered in sand. He didn’t even try to lie down, went into the water instead. Art Child and I threw ourselves down on our respective towels as soon as we got them down, in an attempt to keep them from flying away, and trying to block the sand from our eyes. I grew up on that beach, and I can honestly say I have never experienced this amount of sand pelting everything and everyone outside of a November pre-rainstorm.

At first it was kind of funny. Go to the beach, she said, it’ll be fun, she said. Man Child lasted about three minutes in the water, it was bizarrely cold for August. Give it a few minutes, surely it will blow over. Art Child was huddled on her towel, shirt completely wrapped around her head, while Man Child and I laughed, chewed sand, spit sand, and waited. Inside of 30 minutes, there wasn’t a centimeter on any of us that hadn’t been exfoliated, including my throat and eyeballs. If you’ve never experienced it, crunchy contact lenses aren’t a rejuvenating sensation. Art Child was now shivering, so we decided it just didn’t make sense to stay, made a futile attempt to shake the sand off our stuff, and packed up. Ten minutes waiting for the train, another hour and twenty minutes home.

We walk into our building, laugh with the security guard and super that it’s a good thing they didn’t come with us, go upstairs, and…can’t get inside. For the first time in my entire life, I had locked myself out of my apartment. If you’ve ever lived alone, you’re cautious about that kind of thing. I moved out of my parent’s house when I was 18? 19?, lived alone for years, and in those years, often worked a swing shift. You cannot ring the super or landlady’s bell at 2am and ask for them to let you in. I guess those habits get ingrained, so in all these years, I’ve never locked myself out. I also gave up on making sure anyone else had a copy of my keys. Apparently when we switched apartments last year, we didn’t give the super the new keys either. We live in a large, post-war but not new building. This means there’s no jimmying the lock with a credit card, bobby pin, or other MacGyveresque maneuver to break in. No external fire escapes on these institutional-style buildings to be climbed. Sure we’ve got a terrace, but it’s 16 floors up, the terraces don’t begin until the fourth floor, and shockingly enough, I am not Spiderman. Hell, even if there was a way to climb up, it’s rare that I can get the windows open from the inside. From the outside? Hah!

Husband had gone to work. In New Jersey. Friday, of Labor day weekend. No way he could run back home to let us in, and ludicrous to think of taking the bus to NJ and back in sand-filled bathing suits so we could pick up the keys. It would have taken 6-7 hours roundtrip in holiday traffic. He was going to be home in another 8 hours anyway. So we went to Mother-In-Law’s. Thankfully she was home and a good sport about the whole thing, though I suspect she was done with us by about the 6th hour. Husband was a mere hour and a half late getting back into the city, and we were home by midnight.

Speaking of midnight, the moon put on quite a show over this past week, and I was able to get a few good shots. If anyone knows why it was so red/orange, I’d love to know, but in any case it was beautiful.

Celebrate with Mrs Fringe

Here, have a café con leche on the terrace with me.

Yesterday was my 3 year blogoversary.

3 years isn’t that long and my number of subscribers isn’t very large in the context of the “big” blogs, but I can say, without reservation, it all feels pretty damned fine to me.

When I began, I didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted Mrs Fringe to look like, or exactly what it would encompass. I said from the beginning (and have continued to say) I wanted a space to be honest, to feel like a whole person, and a spot to prompt myself to write with just enough pressure but no actual, strict obligations. Maybe I thought it would scratch my writing itch. It hasn’t, in terms of fiction; instead, it’s an addition. I didn’t know how much I needed it, or how important this blog would become to me, my sense of self, or the growing number of fabulous people I’d meet through blogging. I didn’t know I’d grow bold enough to post fiction, organized enough to create multiple pages with permanent links under the header in hopes of making navigation easier for readers. I didn’t know if it would attract any readers, let alone regular followers and commenters, but it has, and I thank every one of you for taking the time, making the effort. A huge thank you to WordPress, for offering a platform that even a luddite like myself could navigate.

It’s funny how blogging has become such a part of my world. As I go about my days in real time/space, each experience becomes a possible post, every oddity that catches my eye something that has me reaching for the camera.

The other day I took Art Child downtown, for a free workshop for teen artists, sponsored/presented by Sprite and Complex, hosted by Pen & Pixel.

While we were on line waiting to meet Art Child’s friend and her mom, I thought this is what life on the economic fringe in New York means, this is what Mrs Fringe is about.

Sprite Corner: Obey Your Thirst, yes

Life on the fringe has its own set of stresses and stressors. There are so many, many opportunities here in New York, often closed to those of us on strict budgets. But sometimes you fall into something that’s cool, and free, and you actually get your shit together and register early enough to get your kiddo into this cool, free opportunity, and haul yourself on the 2 train to the N train to the J train, to a neighborhood that can’t quite decide if it’s going to gentrify or remain industrial, and it’s worth it. They’re running several events out of this pop-up storefront this summer, this one was a Photoshop/Design workshop, but they’re sponsoring others in music, comedy, cooking, and film. It’s about supporting and enabling creativity in young people.

Tattoo while I wait?

Free (good!) pizza offered for the kids before entering.

I thought there would be a spot where I could sit out of the way, or go in for coffee, while the girl was in the workshop. Hmm, my choice seemed to be browsing industrial-sized cooking appliances or blowing a week’s budget in a chi-chi juice bar. But then one of the execs came over to my friend and I as we were saying goodbye to the girls (I get it, parents hovering over the kids at the computers isn’t exactly the photo ops they’re looking for, plus he wanted to confirm Art Child was within the age group they’re insured for, she looks younger) and offered to buy us coffee. Nice.

By the time we were seated and our orders were taken, coffee became wine and a lovely food plate, and I had put in a plug for Mrs Fringe–I really need to get better at this, if I’m ever going to truly grow this blog–and we spent an hour talking about parenting, cyberbullying, encouraging teens and young adults, raising girls, and S&M.

Sometimes life in Fringeland leads me to some pretty interesting moments and people; thank you for sharing them with me.

Excess

Moonflowers, finally!

I get one every three days or so, but they open in the afternoon, not at night.

What’s worse than 5am yoga? 5am yoga after eating yourself into a carb coma the night before, of course.

The other morning I woke with an urge for corn chowder. First day of a heat wave, why wouldn’t I want soup? I went to the grocery store, and bought the ingredients. Not as easy as it sounds, because I wasn’t thinking about the fact that it was Saturday. In the grocery store. By the time I got home, I needed to rest my back for a while before getting started. Just as well, because lifehappened and I never got to start the soup.

Yesterday, day 2 of the heat wave. I love summer, nothing makes me happier than not needing more than flip flops and shades to walk outside, but nothing holds the heat like the city. The thought of soup was now as appealing as diving into the Hudson River. But…I already dropped $50 in the grocery store the day before, and had told Art Child she could help me. Just in case making soup when it’s 93° with 69% humidity outside wasn’t enough, in between chopping and sautéing, I was back and forth at the laptop, had a thought provoking email conversation with a writing friend about writing and not. This, naturally, is a conversation I feel compelled to keep having, but it’s upsetting too, leaving me to feel generally useless. What to do when I’m stressing myself out? I added biscuits, chicken (for the flesh eaters), and tofu (for the non flesh-eaters) to the menu.

cheddar scallion biscuits

Gin & Lemonade

Maybe an extra jalapeño next time.

Marinated chicken

Tofu in the same marinade.

I’m a pretty good cook, and sometimes everything works out just the way I want it to, and last night’s dinner was one of those meals. Husband went into work early yesterday, so he was actually home at dinnertime, and the four of us sat together. At my table, everyone sitting together means political discussions. Last night’s topic segued from the need for campaign contribution reforms, to general American consumerism and excess. Did it occur to me that in that moment, sucking down my organic, non-GMO corn, jalapeño, and yukon gold potato soup that I was the very picture of American excess? Yes, yes it did. But I enjoyed it anyway. Did the conversation stop me from thinking I had absolutely nailed those biscuits? (If, like me, you’re too heavy handed with a rolling pin, drop biscuits are the way to go.) Nope. When I was already full from the soup and biscuit, did it prevent me from taking a big slice of tofu? Well, you see, I made the whole brick, and it’s only Art Child and I who eat the tofu, so it would be wasteful to not even eat one slice….

What a surprise that I woke up before the sun, feeling like an overstuffed sausage. These political conversations are deadly, I tellya.

Lousy Poem Wednesday

For whatever anyone (including myself) may/may not think of my writing, I am not a poet. I love poetry, but don’t know anything about the various forms, never studied it or felt compelled to do so. Of course, when I was a teenager and young adult, I wrote plenty of angsty poems. All free verse, because, of course, I didn’t know what I was doing. Attempts at rhymes resulted in the love children of elementary roses-are-red and the man-from-Nantucket, and I abandoned poetry for short stories by the time I was in my twenties.

Once in a while, though, like once every ten years, I have an urge. I went to the beach with Art Child the other day. Took the train out to Brooklyn to “my” beach, just beyond the shadow of the elevated train tracks. Brighton Beach isn’t what anyone would call paradise, or even clean–truly, you have to shower off the layer of dirt and grime before determining whether or not you got any color– but I love it. It feels like home, what can I say. When we were walking to the water, I noticed chicken bones scattered in the sand, probably rejected by seagulls. Those bones, complete with bits of batter and gristle, stayed in my mind.

Past the end

down and down the steps

up the ramp

splinters of before

push through

Sun soothes, empties the cells

Look Ma! No cancer, Vitamin D–

except skin

Pleats and furrows pulled taut by kelp flies

pores opened by the heat

for sweat to drown the fleas

Open

wider to swallow

shell fragments

broken beer bottles

chicken bones

And the salt

taste it

on the breeze

in the water

against the scummy layer of coconut oil

Grains of could-be

meld into

Squishy mud of

should-have-been

and I dive.

City Angles, Highline Edition

Yesterday afternoon we went for a walk on the High Line. On the west side of Manhattan, it’s an old elevated freight train line that was converted into a public park/walk. (It’s also the setting for the opening scene of Astonishing, “poetic” license to make it work.) It really is the best of the city, squished in between residential buildings, old factories, and office buildings, incorporating the beams and concrete that were already there with plantings, art, and lookout points. In quite a few sections, I mean squished quite literally, there are some buildings where you could reach over and touch the windows. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t walk too far, but even a few blocks’ worth yielded many photos.

under the high line, before we walked up

Squint and see NJ

smokestack

What is this? Such a cool tree

Ground cover and plantings underneath the walkway.

Maybe not the section for stilettos

I love her, as do many others–poor thing is being kissed by too many.

Several of these along the walkway, made of rebar, just perfect.

If I lived in one of these buildings I’d have barbed wire curtains.

Parking, like everything else in Manhattan, is often vertical.

How the other half (or maybe the other 1%) lives. That rectangle? The frame for a private swimming pool.

The bigger bees never make it up to my terrace, I guess it’s too high, but there were many along the path here.

I’d like to be on one of these boats.

I can’t help but wonder if by the time the plantings are matured, the effects will be ruined because of all the construction being done around it.

Exit by the Chelsea Market.

Not All Beach Days are Perfect

But somehow, all perfect days include the beach. Today was one of those days, and the first officially unofficial beach day of the season for us. Must be summer! Warning: photo intensive post ahead.

This morning I charged the camera, Husband, Art Child and I threw towels and waters in the car, left our sleeping and completely-uninterested-in-all-things-beachy Nerd Child behind, and got on the highway.

Getting excited as we leave the city.

Lucky souls sailing down the Hudson River.

Yes, that Asbury Park–and I was Born to Run.

Pfft, no umbrellas required.

Wouldn’t be me without some macros thrown in.

The water is still cold, but I couldn’t believe how clear and lovely it was.

Something about this one, I like it.

I hadn’t been to Asbury Park since, well, a long, long time ago. The beach and water isn’t just cleaner than it used to be, it’s clean. And beautiful. One of my beach obsessions involves the critters that live in the sand. Funny how one roach in the hallway will send me on a three-day scrubbing and freak out spree, culminating in 50 Combat traps, but I’m fascinated by the creepy crawlies in and around the ocean.

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We didn’t stay too long. First day out, why ruin it with sunburn? So we packed up and walked along the boardwalk for a bit.

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Homeward bound.

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Ok, even I’ll admit these grains of sand are getting mighty uncomfortable.