NEW SPRING WORKING IT OUT IN TIGARD

 

“Like sand through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.”

 

A nice reminder when things get more than a little too dramatic.

 

I’d rather hear a soap opera intro than the Persian proverb, “This too shall pass.” To fatalistic.

 

Unless it’s a really awful thing I can’t wait to be over, like explaining tone to the tone deaf.

 

Where to start? With a new spring.

 

 

I grew up in a town where it was tradition to talk sh!t about other towns. Fun stuff until I realized the other towns did the same thing.

 

The bigger the town, the bigger the sh!t talk. Then I learned how one city can hate on another, one state against another, the North and the South, and every other rivalry on the card.

 

The best example of rivalry is sibling rivalry.

 

There’s always a side to pick. And it’s okay to pick again, to change your mind, to reconsider. The main point is make it fair and keep it fun.

 

I don’t like hearing sh!t talk from a bandwagon jumper. Better to keep it fresh and new, like a new spring.

 

 

I detected old tired sh!t talk from someone giving it like they made it up themselves.

 

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I heard your your sh!t talk from the radio. What you’re doing is recycling tired sh!t talk before it’s old enough to forget and be new again.”

 

“No copyright, no problem,” she said, adjusting her stolen valor ‘Support The Troops’ ball cap. “Need to get the word out, break new ground, like lilacs in a new spring.”

 

 

“Or dead berries left over from last year,” I said. “Repeat sh!t talk without proper attribution and you risk invalidating your sh!t talker card.”

 

“I don’t think so,” she huffed, bending over to tuck a huge Rambo knife, the silver one with supplies in the screw cap stash handle, into their boot. After pulling their skinny jeans over their boot it still looked like a huge knife in a boot.

 

“It still shows,” I said.

 

“That’s the idea,” she said. “Strength through power, like the power of a new spring knifing up through the dirt.”

 

 

 

“It’s against sh!t talk rules to repeat someone elses truth as your own,” I said, pulling my Sh!t Talk constitution from my shirt pocket.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything. Come on, have a little fun. My truth? Like my truth matters. My truth is keeping the ball rolling,” she said. “That goes for anyone with a brain. If I keep rolling, if we all keep rolling, then we’re doing what we’re supposed to be doing. And that’s no sh!t talk.”

 

 

“So you’re not upset that I called you out for your weak sh!t talk?” I said, holding the door open.

 

“Not at all. It gives me an idea of where your tolerance for sh!t talk is,” she said. “That’s what people forget about, tolerance. From as much sh!t talk as I’ve heard the last year, I get a feeling it’s starting to sink in.”

 

“Like the sh!t talk is about to get real?” I said. “I’ve always wondered what that meant.”

 

“From sh!t talk, to talk about sh!t holes is what it means,” she said.

 

“And who is listening?” I asked.

 

“We never know. Let’s march.”