I'd love to be a cashier at Walgreens.

Scattered bits of information collected together in one place have always fascinated me. Though their individual meanings are trivial, their juxtoposition with other pieces of meaningless crap creates an ever-changing metaphorical vignette, and an art-school-b.s.-er like me goes gaga for that kind of stuff.

Found Magazine captures some of this, and if it's still in print, I highly recommend picking up a copy.

It's the items in the background of a photo that tell the story of setting.

I'm obviously still working through exactly what I'm trying to say, and unsuccessfully, I'm afraid. Here are the numbers, the items, the background noise, the smatterings. Maybe they'll do a better job of speaking for me.

(And really, when you think about it, how is a typical blog post any more or less revealing than a grocery list anyway?)

• My freezer door is host to 26 bags of frozen breastmilk, lined up like soldiers ready to nourish the boy. The approximate volume is 104 ounces- just over 2 1/2 quarts. This stockpile of liquid fuel would feed Judah for just over 5 days.

• I hold a certain belief (obviously not borne of theological study, but perhaps just as valid in it's own right) that each evening, God assigns a different angel to do the sky. [I hesitate to use the word "paint" as I've seen a number of skies that are much more reminiscent of mixed media pieces, and I tend to see God as One who appreciates variety in creation.] Last evening I was driving through Salem, Overisel, Fillmore... perfect places to witness the skies... and the angel on the schedule appeared to be a moody character, using a palette of primarily grays, with a punch of glowing sherbet melon on the western horizon. With the darkening silhouette of windbreaking lines of trees, the overall effect was Rothko-esque, and it drew my eyes dangerously from the road. The drama of the sky over farmland startles me, and I wonder how my own general outlook might morph if I lived in such a place.

• This is the first casualty of my porch tomato plants, brutally jostled in a summer storm and bruised from its descent to the concrete below.

• Eden's favored playthings of late are an assortment of cheap plastic farm animals and an equally cheap plastic barn. (After watching the Story of Stuff the other night, I'm a bit ashamed to say that I spent a whopping $3.18 on the lot of it. Ignore the truth, ignore the truth, ignore the truth...) These toys and the games they inspire keep my busy child occupied BY HERSELF for extended periods of time... a phenomena so rare that I dash away when the animals come out to get something done around the house. A jewel of this chapter in my life that I am determined to remember is the daily discovery of these games, as evidenced by the plastic cows and sheep and "chichins" in various locales around the house.

I planned to include a verbatim representation on my grocery list from Family Fare yesterday, and, strangely, this feels too personal. Chew on that.