Ants in my pants

there are ants everywhere in the new house. it looks like the carpet has come to life and decided to leave. there are a few things that are left to be done in the house (by the builder): attach the side stairs, finish the baseboards and SEAL THE FUCKING CRACKS SO THE ANTS DON'T KEEP POURING IN. no duh. doesn't this seem like something that should be done BEFORE the close of escrow? along with the install of the air conditioner since it is 9 million goddamn degrees here?

parker is both more trying and delightful at 18 months than she has ever been. recently, i have come to the conclusion that children sleep, not to recharge their bodies and minds, but so that you fall in love with them again.

i'm reading ray bradbury's "something wicked this way comes":

what's the answer, he wondered, walking through the library, putting out the lights, putting out the lights, is it all in the whorls on our thumbs and fingers? why are some people all grasshopper fiddlings, scrapings, all antennae shivering, one big ganglion eternally knotting, slip-knotting, square-knotting themselves? they stroke the furnace all their lives, sweat their lips, shine their eyes and start it all in the crib. caesar's lean and hungry friends. they eat the dark, who only stand and breathe.

that's jim, all bramblehair and itchweed.

and will? why, he's the last peach, high on a summer tree. some boys walk by and you cry, seeing them. they feel good, they look good, they are good. oh, they're not above peeling off a bridge, or stealing an ocassional dimestore pencil sharpener; it's not that. it's just, you know, seeing them pass, that's how they'll be all their life;p they'll get hit, hurt, cut, bruised, and always wonder why, why does it happen? how can it happen to them.