Belly Dancing

Me: I've known a few belly dancers in my time. Unfortuntely not many have had ripped abs.

Him: Well, it's not called ab dancing.

Happy Mother's Day

Via Whiskey Millitia Daily Shot

Trainlove

The train passes through Salt Lake City like the Missouri River passes through Pierre or Leavenworth or Kansas City. It's there. It is always moving. In its soul is stored memories of where its been and anticipation of where it's going. It can easily become part of the scenery – part of the fade-to-grey backdrop against which everything that really happens happens. And it can easily be taken for granted.

I love the Salt Lake City trains. Amtrak or Union Pacific, the names mean nothing to me. These trains are just my city's trains. I see them rarely, but their songs are part of my life's honest soundtrack.

I remember the night I fell in love with the trains. I was laying in the dark in an apartment on Capital Hill in the warm spring of 2000. It was past midnight but not morning yet. Frank was asleep on the floor next to the bed, chasing a dream squirrel, or maybe a dream magpie, and whimpering. I was too aware to sleep, but I stayed there on my back under the open window, covered only in a melon-colored sheet, watching the shadow puppet show of street lamp-backlit cottonwood branches nodding in time with the breeze against the ceiling. Then I heard the train, for the first time – the woeful echo of an unreciprocated nighttime hello. At that time, I didn't know where the trains were, where they had come from, or where they were headed, but I did realize that on their whistle could ride any wish or worry that I might choose to release.

I still love the sound. Sometimes I listen for it. I wait for it. Sometimes it catches me off guard. Always, though, it makes me smile. The whistle is my friend. It is the carrier pigeon for my hopes and my frets. It is my reminder that I am home.