Tag Archives: goats

Gomez

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

Deep in Mongolia, near a castle built by Tsogt Taij, lives Gomez. Gomez has a farm of 73 acres, and he toils over his coffee crop, determined to grow a blend that brings to mind clear skies, warm earth and grass for as far as the eye can see.

He calls his blend Zanabazar, after the first Jebtsundamba Khutughtu in 1640. Unfortunately for Gomez (and, quite frankly, the rest of us), coffee prefers warmer and lusher climes, and until he gets his state-of-the-art greenhouse yert built, Zanabazar is just a dream.

Gomez also raises goats on his land, and since he’s rather short, he wears tall golden ears so that he’s easily found amidst the herds. He reads poetry to the goats as they wander the acreage, and his deeply resonating voice echoes across the quiet skies.

Perhaps future generations will sip Zanabazar and raise coffee wherever they please in yerts full of warmth and fertile earth. Perhaps future generations will see drawings of Gomez in his gold ears, poems etched into the walls above his image, like in the Khoid Tsenkher Cave.

And we, we shall admire Gomez for his dreams. For his faith in the beauty of simple things – like goats, coffee, and poetry. We shall dream big dreams for ourselves, and will stare on hills towards the sky, barefoot like Gomez.

Wearing gold ears.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

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Pan. Seared.

If you’ve had a drunken goat child camp in your garden, then you understand why I’ve hidden the tangerines and turned up the Wagner.

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Pan. Fried.

I admit to having too much sherry last night whilst reading mysteries and listening to the Kurundu birds sing like falling rain. It took a veritable keg of strong java to lull me from my slumber state, and I will warn you, fair readers: I could be considered crankier than usual.

Bubo littered bones all over the front step after a night of voracious hunting. (I’m assuming; perhaps she’s taken to grave-robbing, though for what ends, I’m unsure.) She disappeared this afternoon, most likely to nap in the breeze at The Green-Wood Cemetery, so I was left with sweeping up the pile.

I found this fellow between the rose bushes and the apiary.

He smells faintly of key limes and bleats “woah” every few minutes. I was unsure of his eyesight, but he kicked one of his sandals at me when I lit my pipe.

Should he become upright and angry, I am thankful he is not polycerate.

Oh, look it up.

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