I write things. This is the Tumblr for davidolimpio.com.

Amor Fati

Maybe eternal recurrence is a mathematical certainty.
But I don’t see why that would mean Zarathustra was a groundhog.
Or why that critter would probably be okay with what you did to him this morning.

Amor Fati

Maybe eternal recurrence is a mathematical certainty.
But I don’t see why that would mean Zarathustra was a groundhog.
Or why that critter would probably be okay with what you did to him this morning.

Honey and Rothko each were given a rawhide. Rothko is eating his. Honey is moping and wishing she had Rothko’s.
A Posteriori

I told you. It was not just belief. It was knowledge.
I knew he would return.
For one thing:
He has always shortened the green.
If he doesn’t shorten the green, who will?

A Posteriori

I told you. It was not just belief. It was knowledge.
I knew he would return.
For one thing:
He has always shortened the green.
If he doesn’t shorten the green, who will?

Back in Jersey. Dog piles to commence.
Found. Free of duty.
Sometimes it’s difficult…
Tilting

We may have found a place to live. We have seen the house twice and we like it. Now, the relocation company is talking politely to the agents and the agents are talking politely to the owners and we’re talking politely to both the relo company and the agents and there are just many, many parties and we are all talking politely to one-another.
The people with the house are in a situation similar to ours. They are relocating to Singapore for work. They are leaving at the end of this month. Which means they will be arriving to a new place at the beginning of next month. Like us. Most importantly, they have a dog. A hound-like dog. A dog similar to ours. So it’s possible they understand a dog situation. It’s reasonable to assume they appreciate a dog scenario within a living arrangement.
This all reminds me of a joke:
How many real-estate agents does it take for one American couple with two dogs to find a place to rent in England?
About twenty.
That’s it. That’s the entire joke.
For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been living in a hotel off of the A33, pictured above.  It connects the highway M4 to downtown Reading. We’ve met people like Kata and Dragos and Peter, who have become our friends. We’ve become regulars at their bar in the evening for dinner or drinks or coffee, and at their tables in the morning for breakfast.
When you look south on the A33 from the hotel, you can see a great windmill near Madejski Stadium. It spins and spins in the various painted skies: The cirrus and the stratus and the cirrostratus, the cumulus afternoons.  The pink and the orange 9 pm sunset. The clear blue morning. The windmill seems small in the distance. It seems like something you can easily take. But as you get close to it, you understand its size and its power.
You understand it is not what you thought.
You understand you’ll need a different strategy.
Tonight it is storming. It is the first big storm we’ve seen here. The bright lightning flashes from behind the heavy hotel curtains. The thunder is as if from angry giants. If Honey were here, she’d be shaking and panting. If Rothko were here, he’d be putting his face right up against mine. And those might not be unreasonable strategies.

Tilting

We may have found a place to live. We have seen the house twice and we like it. Now, the relocation company is talking politely to the agents and the agents are talking politely to the owners and we’re talking politely to both the relo company and the agents and there are just many, many parties and we are all talking politely to one-another.
The people with the house are in a situation similar to ours. They are relocating to Singapore for work. They are leaving at the end of this month. Which means they will be arriving to a new place at the beginning of next month. Like us. Most importantly, they have a dog. A hound-like dog. A dog similar to ours. So it’s possible they understand a dog situation. It’s reasonable to assume they appreciate a dog scenario within a living arrangement.
This all reminds me of a joke:
How many real-estate agents does it take for one American couple with two dogs to find a place to rent in England?
About twenty.
That’s it. That’s the entire joke.
For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been living in a hotel off of the A33, pictured above. It connects the highway M4 to downtown Reading. We’ve met people like Kata and Dragos and Peter, who have become our friends. We’ve become regulars at their bar in the evening for dinner or drinks or coffee, and at their tables in the morning for breakfast.
When you look south on the A33 from the hotel, you can see a great windmill near Madejski Stadium. It spins and spins in the various painted skies: The cirrus and the stratus and the cirrostratus, the cumulus afternoons. The pink and the orange 9 pm sunset. The clear blue morning. The windmill seems small in the distance. It seems like something you can easily take. But as you get close to it, you understand its size and its power.
You understand it is not what you thought.
You understand you’ll need a different strategy.
Tonight it is storming. It is the first big storm we’ve seen here. The bright lightning flashes from behind the heavy hotel curtains. The thunder is as if from angry giants. If Honey were here, she’d be shaking and panting. If Rothko were here, he’d be putting his face right up against mine. And those might not be unreasonable strategies.

Today I went to what I thought was a Costco in England, but it was actually a Jameson store in disguise.
Me, Jeanne, Frank. Being spiritual as fuck. House Mountain. Rockbridge County, VA. 1993? #tbt
From yesterday… “You do a lot of these?” I said. “It’s all I do. All day. Every day.” There is an industry here that revolves around people putting the wrong gas in their car.
Luckily I was within walking distance of a place that serves fajitas while I am waiting for a guy to come siphon my diesel-only tank of the regular unleaded I put into it. EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON, YOU GUYS.
Nine Six

Today from the dog sitter:
Honey often barks and growls at other dogs and gets into fights over toys/beds/spots on the couch. Rothko has behaved very cowardly and sometimes refuses to follow commands just shuns away to hide under tables and has to be pulled out.
EXACTLY AS I’VE TAUGHT THEM.
I need something good.
A hydrant, even.
Something.
Will settle for this Sixty-Nine Hydrant Sign.

Nine Six

Today from the dog sitter:
Honey often barks and growls at other dogs and gets into fights over toys/beds/spots on the couch. Rothko has behaved very cowardly and sometimes refuses to follow commands just shuns away to hide under tables and has to be pulled out.
EXACTLY AS I’VE TAUGHT THEM.
I need something good.
A hydrant, even.
Something.
Will settle for this Sixty-Nine Hydrant Sign.

Wokingham Hydrant

There is a town called Wokingham and we may live in it or near it. I met with an agent today named Paige, and unlike many of the other agents, Paige seemed genuinely optimistic about some not horrible places we might be able to live in with dogs. One of the properties she thought might work was an old barn conversion. I really want to live in a barn conversion, because next time C says, “Jesus, you act like you live in a barn.” I can then say, “Yes.”
One of the things I discovered tonight on the Internets is that Wokingham seems to be one of the healthiest towns in England. Maybe if we end up in Wokingham, we will never leave. Maybe nobody does.
We have become “regulars” at our hotel. Most of the staff knows us and the things we tend to order or say or do. We go down for breakfast and they greet us and we exchange pleasantries and we talk about the shifting landscape of the guests all around us: sometimes a convention of business people, sometimes a tour bus full of old Germans.
I like to pretend I’m Major Gowen in Fawlty Towers, and I watch the cricket on the TV like I know what the hell is happening, and I drink a whiskey and I look for a moose head I can talk to.

Wokingham Hydrant

There is a town called Wokingham and we may live in it or near it. I met with an agent today named Paige, and unlike many of the other agents, Paige seemed genuinely optimistic about some not horrible places we might be able to live in with dogs. One of the properties she thought might work was an old barn conversion. I really want to live in a barn conversion, because next time C says, “Jesus, you act like you live in a barn.” I can then say, “Yes.”
One of the things I discovered tonight on the Internets is that Wokingham seems to be one of the healthiest towns in England. Maybe if we end up in Wokingham, we will never leave. Maybe nobody does.
We have become “regulars” at our hotel. Most of the staff knows us and the things we tend to order or say or do. We go down for breakfast and they greet us and we exchange pleasantries and we talk about the shifting landscape of the guests all around us: sometimes a convention of business people, sometimes a tour bus full of old Germans.
I like to pretend I’m Major Gowen in Fawlty Towers, and I watch the cricket on the TV like I know what the hell is happening, and I drink a whiskey and I look for a moose head I can talk to.

Reading Reds
The last few weeks have been bad weeks. They have been some of the worst. It has had nothing to do with coming to England (I think that has helped). It also has had nothing to do with my generalized lack-of-dogs condition (I think that hasn’t helped, but still…) I know this sounds ominous and cryptic. I’m sorry about that. You can just ignore all of this. I actually really want you to. Because it’s not my style to be this way. Or maybe it is. Maybe it is exactly my style. Do I have a style? Do I have a me, now? Now that every instinct seems wrong. Every familiar muscle memory is cut. Every sound. Every mannerism. Every hope. Do I have a me? Now? Did I ever? In the car, my hands reach for things that aren’t in the places my hands expect the things to be. I have to fight natural urges to make wrong-way turns and I have to consciously think about making the right-way ones. I have to learn the things I’ve already learned. I have to do the things I’ve already done. Be the person I’ve already been. My voice hates not speaking through a dog. My voice hates the sound it makes when it is alone.

Reading Reds

The last few weeks have been bad weeks. They have been some of the worst. It has had nothing to do with coming to England (I think that has helped). It also has had nothing to do with my generalized lack-of-dogs condition (I think that hasn’t helped, but still…) I know this sounds ominous and cryptic. I’m sorry about that. You can just ignore all of this. I actually really want you to. Because it’s not my style to be this way.
Or maybe it is. Maybe it is exactly my style.
Do I have a style? Do I have a me, now? Now that every instinct seems wrong. Every familiar muscle memory is cut. Every sound. Every mannerism. Every hope.
Do I have a me? Now? Did I ever?
In the car, my hands reach for things that aren’t in the places my hands expect the things to be. I have to fight natural urges to make wrong-way turns and I have to consciously think about making the right-way ones. I have to learn the things I’ve already learned. I have to do the things I’ve already done. Be the person I’ve already been.
My voice hates not speaking through a dog.
My voice hates the sound it makes when it is alone.

Picked up one of these babies today. So for to air the clean laundry. #glamourshot #hotelliving