I've started drawing chibis. I have a feeling that it's going to be like crack~ impossible to stop and soon consuming life. WHY ARE THEY SO DANG CUTE????
Ahem. Well. On other fronts, the Domesticated Other is going to Europe this next week. I'm a little jealous, but I'm having fun where I'm at. Some friends of mine will probably move to Finland in a few years, and I'll help them and go to Europe at the same time. :)
There's a frivolous offer batted about in the IRC about a cottage and a party, but who knows! I'm feeling like a whole lot is possible for me.
~
There was a whole lot of nothing going on. Jen looked at the laundry and the sink. They sneered at her, so she decided to take a walk. Not that they wouldn't sneer again when she got back. She was just hoping that she'd muster the oomph to growl in return. Sometimes her whole life bullied her. She'd catered to the whims of her work, her family, her apartment for a good long time. Maybe she was just tired, but now even her hobbies bossed her around. Half way down the sidewalk she couldn't remember if she had locked the door or not.
Jen turned and looked. The forest green mouth to her home bared its teeth. She spun about and kept walking. It was almost a wish that someone would walk in and steal it all. Her sofa, her computer, her dirty dishes. Not much chance of that, but she could hope. She stopped again and felt her hair. Had she brushed it? She closed her eyes and pieced the morning together behind her eyelids. Woke up. Bathroom. Teeth. Deodorant, meds. Then a scrounge for mostly clean jeans and a t-shirt. Damn, must have missed it. Jan peered at her reflection in the picture window of a house.
It didn't look too bad. She ran her fingers through it to take care of the bit that stuck up. Since she couldn't see the back, she'd pretend that others couldn't either. Her shuffling feet took her to the park. The grass was crunchy where a sprinkler head was capped. The dry stalks poked her feet over the flip flops.
For once, the park was empty. You could see where others had been, but they were all gone now. A half empty soda left on the bench swarmed with bees. Jen sat gingerly on the other side. Normally bees scared her. She'd never been stung, but her brother was allergic. Maybe she was actually like him in that. You never knew. Today she just looked at their furry jostles for sugar.
She felt her brain sit down too. It was so nice not to think. Her tired thoughts circled her bed at nights; her desk during the day. For today, there was nothing but the warm sun, blue sky, and lazy bumbles. Jan felt her chin nodding. Why jerk awake? A slow steady slouch into snoozing. Her half closed eyes watched yellow and black explore her knee. Perhaps, she thought, this is what it is to be depressed.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Inundated
I'm inundated with stuff. It's amazing. What was previously a roomy, quiet apartment is now peacekeeping zone. The detritus of my offsprings' explosive entry after summer break is breathtaking, and I'm knee deep.
~
Pitter patting paws on my cat. She lights on my knee and blerts her mild disapproval of my shorts. She knows that clawing my leg instead of jeans will make the house noisy. I tell her it's too hot and boot her off. A few seconds later I feel her brush the back of my calf. I sneak a glance. She catches my eye anyway and bites my toe, just for kicks.
Nice.
Such are the pleasures of being supervised by felines. The true mystery of it all is that I named my daughter something that contracts down to Cat. And she's growing tall. I have the feeling she's going to be taller than me. That's not exactly a difficult feat, but I dread the look of tigerish disdain from both below and above.
It's already begun, of sorts. Consider our morning routine. The alarm goes off and I take a shower. Cat and cat both ignore the noise, being selectively deaf to things not personally desirable. I stand in the wet. This is the most peaceful time of the day, to be prolonged whenever possible. For the moment the water turns off, a small black shadow flits on the other side of the shower doors. She has not noticed her state of inkiness against the creamy floor. When I slide things open and step out for my towel, she slips slyly behind and bides her time. Once the towel wraps and there are no drips, she attacks!
With her tongue, that is. That's right. Just out of the bath, the first feeling of the day is wet sandpaper on the skin of my legs. Rubbing the creepiness away, I scuttle into the Cat lair. It's a tactical error. I step on a hair accessory that feels like lego. I trip over a teddy bear clone. I stumble to the bed, only to find my daughter bolted in the confusion.
She's in the bathroom. Locked in with my glasses, my clothes, and my peaceful moment. The cat's yellow eyes gleam down the hall. I'd better make a run for it or I'll be licked again.
Dressed for school, I can nervously tell that she'll pass me this year. This in between teen stage is the hardest. Lithe and lionish, she prowls about looking for her books. Her jeans are cutting edge; her hair's been snorted on by a rhino. But she still has that insouciant felinity when she turns and commands that meat be prepared for supper. She slinks out the door and the cat ambushes my hose.
I depart for work beating off the outraged shedder of fur. Or I would, if I didn't stand on the cusp of my porch. To them I am caught between. Then I look up and look down, meeting slitted eyes with the thought that they choose to stay.
~
Pitter patting paws on my cat. She lights on my knee and blerts her mild disapproval of my shorts. She knows that clawing my leg instead of jeans will make the house noisy. I tell her it's too hot and boot her off. A few seconds later I feel her brush the back of my calf. I sneak a glance. She catches my eye anyway and bites my toe, just for kicks.
Nice.
Such are the pleasures of being supervised by felines. The true mystery of it all is that I named my daughter something that contracts down to Cat. And she's growing tall. I have the feeling she's going to be taller than me. That's not exactly a difficult feat, but I dread the look of tigerish disdain from both below and above.
It's already begun, of sorts. Consider our morning routine. The alarm goes off and I take a shower. Cat and cat both ignore the noise, being selectively deaf to things not personally desirable. I stand in the wet. This is the most peaceful time of the day, to be prolonged whenever possible. For the moment the water turns off, a small black shadow flits on the other side of the shower doors. She has not noticed her state of inkiness against the creamy floor. When I slide things open and step out for my towel, she slips slyly behind and bides her time. Once the towel wraps and there are no drips, she attacks!
With her tongue, that is. That's right. Just out of the bath, the first feeling of the day is wet sandpaper on the skin of my legs. Rubbing the creepiness away, I scuttle into the Cat lair. It's a tactical error. I step on a hair accessory that feels like lego. I trip over a teddy bear clone. I stumble to the bed, only to find my daughter bolted in the confusion.
She's in the bathroom. Locked in with my glasses, my clothes, and my peaceful moment. The cat's yellow eyes gleam down the hall. I'd better make a run for it or I'll be licked again.
Dressed for school, I can nervously tell that she'll pass me this year. This in between teen stage is the hardest. Lithe and lionish, she prowls about looking for her books. Her jeans are cutting edge; her hair's been snorted on by a rhino. But she still has that insouciant felinity when she turns and commands that meat be prepared for supper. She slinks out the door and the cat ambushes my hose.
I depart for work beating off the outraged shedder of fur. Or I would, if I didn't stand on the cusp of my porch. To them I am caught between. Then I look up and look down, meeting slitted eyes with the thought that they choose to stay.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
That's Why You Should Write~
In self defense, I am learning to cook my dinner, eat, and wash my dishes before I turn on my computer at night. It's Skype. For some reason I said yes to having it in my start up. My computer rings within seconds of turning on. I suppose I should be humbled that my mere presence is necessary the very moment I'm available. But I wish to retire to the IRC channel. It scared me witless last week, but now seems like a comfortable haven.
~
"That's why you should write." Drew seems to hold this as an unavoidable destiny. For me, at least. I'm not sure what inspired this revelation, and I don't want to ask. It scares me a little. I do write. Not very often, so perhaps that doesn't count. But how often do you have to verbiate before it does? And count for what? To make my living of it? To simply dance from web to web in camaraderie? For the amusement of others?
And now I've fled from an IRC channel and the thought of story telling, coward that I am. It segues the evening into Bach and the Little Fugue. Light intricate notes fingering my spine might remind me to have one. It's always easier to gather courage in a rain of notes. They chill the hot flare of shame and patter the waves to soft ripples. The flight for fight spins as melody chases counter song in laughing footsteps.
I think it's this feeling I miss the most about Hawai'i, to the point of tears. I want to walk on the beach in the rain, and watch the ocean matte under the weeping of the sky. Bach's Little Fugue in G Minor. You would think that it was all grey. The ashes of the clouds over the slate of the sea. The vibrant green of a thousand days of rejoicing chlorophyll drooping like a wet cat and hissing. It's only when you sit and listen that it comes to you. It's a painting of the wind. A symphony of the air. The dappled dimpled water pattering in song. Your eyes close and you can almost hear the geometry of the chord. The golden mean between shore and shoal. And while you chase the patterned taps behind your eyelids, your fears dance in awe of the melancholy world and leave you behind.
~
"That's why you should write." Drew seems to hold this as an unavoidable destiny. For me, at least. I'm not sure what inspired this revelation, and I don't want to ask. It scares me a little. I do write. Not very often, so perhaps that doesn't count. But how often do you have to verbiate before it does? And count for what? To make my living of it? To simply dance from web to web in camaraderie? For the amusement of others?
And now I've fled from an IRC channel and the thought of story telling, coward that I am. It segues the evening into Bach and the Little Fugue. Light intricate notes fingering my spine might remind me to have one. It's always easier to gather courage in a rain of notes. They chill the hot flare of shame and patter the waves to soft ripples. The flight for fight spins as melody chases counter song in laughing footsteps.
I think it's this feeling I miss the most about Hawai'i, to the point of tears. I want to walk on the beach in the rain, and watch the ocean matte under the weeping of the sky. Bach's Little Fugue in G Minor. You would think that it was all grey. The ashes of the clouds over the slate of the sea. The vibrant green of a thousand days of rejoicing chlorophyll drooping like a wet cat and hissing. It's only when you sit and listen that it comes to you. It's a painting of the wind. A symphony of the air. The dappled dimpled water pattering in song. Your eyes close and you can almost hear the geometry of the chord. The golden mean between shore and shoal. And while you chase the patterned taps behind your eyelids, your fears dance in awe of the melancholy world and leave you behind.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Headset Madness
I'm drowning in new ways to reach out and touch someone. It's almost like that scene in Labyrinth with all of the blue hands that talk. My introverted soul is in deep shock, and the frivolous upper layers of my mind are running amok. But tonight I finally heard the voices of all these people I've been foruming with for ages, and it's nice to connect. ;>
~
Peopled out. It's what happens when the voices in your ears drown the voices in your head. Ideas jostle and tumble over your face. You close your eyes to feel them out, but there's no less resonance. Standing in a waterfall of noise. The trickles flow over your face til you're gasping for breath. Roll down your arms and soak to your skin. The words seep into every pore.
It's rush hour on the metaphorical subway and I'm packed against my friends who wear the voices of strangers. We're face to chest to back to nose in a conference call three by six inches on my screen. I sit small tiny in quiet fascination. Even together on the air, I hear us all typing to each other. There is a resonance of clicks shuttling back and forth. I wonder what we would do parked in the same computer lab? Would we continue to IRC? Would we go out to get a drink? It's rather comforting to know that others also like to sit together in silence.
Where does this subway line take us? I'll hop it to my new IRC afterlife arc...
~
Peopled out. It's what happens when the voices in your ears drown the voices in your head. Ideas jostle and tumble over your face. You close your eyes to feel them out, but there's no less resonance. Standing in a waterfall of noise. The trickles flow over your face til you're gasping for breath. Roll down your arms and soak to your skin. The words seep into every pore.
It's rush hour on the metaphorical subway and I'm packed against my friends who wear the voices of strangers. We're face to chest to back to nose in a conference call three by six inches on my screen. I sit small tiny in quiet fascination. Even together on the air, I hear us all typing to each other. There is a resonance of clicks shuttling back and forth. I wonder what we would do parked in the same computer lab? Would we continue to IRC? Would we go out to get a drink? It's rather comforting to know that others also like to sit together in silence.
Where does this subway line take us? I'll hop it to my new IRC afterlife arc...
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Drifting Fog
It's late tonight, and I'm floating away to whatever iTunes randoms up. It was a very pleasant day. I've hit the Done point, though. Nothing but ashes suspended in air; a small grey cloud hazing the night. Let me brainstorm, and see what falls out.
~
Halos on a night round the moon.
I look at it. It shines on me.
It's a rare night that shadows
prance about me. The cool white light
lifts my arms in dancing worship.
I spin on the damp grass to fall
in charcoal shadows;
so dark and soft in an explosion
of soot. An ebon splash of dark.
It's past curfew and I'm a thousand years
too late to ascend the stars. The planes
I've been on only take me past
the horizon, chasing night and day.
No shadows tangle my yearning feet
in their memory of the moon
singing them home. Only the
chill pressured seat journeying,
returning the ground.
~
Halos on a night round the moon.
I look at it. It shines on me.
It's a rare night that shadows
prance about me. The cool white light
lifts my arms in dancing worship.
I spin on the damp grass to fall
in charcoal shadows;
so dark and soft in an explosion
of soot. An ebon splash of dark.
It's past curfew and I'm a thousand years
too late to ascend the stars. The planes
I've been on only take me past
the horizon, chasing night and day.
No shadows tangle my yearning feet
in their memory of the moon
singing them home. Only the
chill pressured seat journeying,
returning the ground.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
ICR = Death to Blog
I have recently been introduced to Facebook, and reintroduced to IRC. All I can say is, those perpetrators responsible for this assault on my blog time know who they are. When I channel Dr. Horrible (from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog) this Halloween, the evil League of Evil will visit them all!
That being said, I think I will blither idea rambles again tonight. Work is very, very, VERY busy right now, with no indication that it will get any less busy in the near future. I have high hopes for 2009. Rambles are about the extent of my mental capacity right now.
~
Just when
does enjoyment cross into abuse?
Oh, not for things well advertised
as dangerous. No liquored drops
dewing or narced smoky dreams.
I mean those bright fey joys that
rightfully shouldn't give pleasure
at all. When you sit in fascination
at the click of magnets, together
and apart. Taking the time to lick
to the center of that tootsie pop,
or surf in mindless adoration past
bedtimes three time zones hence.
You would think creeping danger
should step on a twig, letting you
startle in timely flight. How then,
do I wake exhausted and looking
for clues on why everything went
wrong?
That being said, I think I will blither idea rambles again tonight. Work is very, very, VERY busy right now, with no indication that it will get any less busy in the near future. I have high hopes for 2009. Rambles are about the extent of my mental capacity right now.
~
Just when
does enjoyment cross into abuse?
Oh, not for things well advertised
as dangerous. No liquored drops
dewing or narced smoky dreams.
I mean those bright fey joys that
rightfully shouldn't give pleasure
at all. When you sit in fascination
at the click of magnets, together
and apart. Taking the time to lick
to the center of that tootsie pop,
or surf in mindless adoration past
bedtimes three time zones hence.
You would think creeping danger
should step on a twig, letting you
startle in timely flight. How then,
do I wake exhausted and looking
for clues on why everything went
wrong?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Back to editing! I'm going to take a look at another 30 day thing. But first: I am so, so, SO glad that today is my work Friday. Really. I can't even describe it. The weeks slide by more easily. The general tone is still sticky. Tomorrow I have a lunch meeting with my ex, a trip to the library, and serious bonding time with all my game platforms. Please, please, please let this weekend heal and refresh.
~
Original Text:
I saw a butterfly wing today. I picked it up and feathery dust stuck to my finger tips. It seems that my prints strip the wing of glory. It's funny, but the shimmering colors don't transfer to my fingers. The cold gray blotch on the membrane matched the sharded dust on my hands.
I wonder what happened to the butterfly. We don't choose to leave our limbs behind. Was it old age, or lizards and toads and birds oh my. A wing shaped bit of my heart ached too. Such a velvet black and limpid blue will never fly again. My eyes swallow the memory for later.
So many colors on so many things. You'd think my brain would get indigestion from all the things it's eaten. My faltering tongue tries to transfer it, but all they see is gray. Wishes won't spin the words to lapis lazuli or gold. The color stays in my mind; slightly cast with depression.
One day my mouth will hold the colors of butterflies. I'll share it in a kiss if you want to speak in rainbows. A quick
snap will fill your mouth with ashes, so hold it on the tip of your tongue.
I consider this to be kind a poetry bud. There's no plot, no theme. Just images dripping down over each other. It's hard to decide what to do with it.
A cobalt flash and a tip of black
I thought I found a butterfly.
it may have been one once
but just a wing remained
still shivering with wind
and iridescence. I picked
it up and my spirits fell
as it lifted. the jeweled
scrap of sky splotched
dirty grey with my finger
tips. I looked for gems
in the swirled prints and
found only shards of dust.
The pang of further destruction
had me wondering how
it had been left behind.
there's not much you
can trump as a flower flying.
a wing shaped bit of my heart
ached, and my eyes swallowed
it for memory. I wish
I could touch it to my mouth
and take it in, spots and all
to paper four chambers
with sapphires.
One day my mouth
will hold the colors of butterflies.
I'll share it in a kiss
if you want to speak in rainbows.
perhaps the silver lining
of your lips will heal
the ashes on the tip of my tongue
and set the sky free
once again.
~
Original Text:
I saw a butterfly wing today. I picked it up and feathery dust stuck to my finger tips. It seems that my prints strip the wing of glory. It's funny, but the shimmering colors don't transfer to my fingers. The cold gray blotch on the membrane matched the sharded dust on my hands.
I wonder what happened to the butterfly. We don't choose to leave our limbs behind. Was it old age, or lizards and toads and birds oh my. A wing shaped bit of my heart ached too. Such a velvet black and limpid blue will never fly again. My eyes swallow the memory for later.
So many colors on so many things. You'd think my brain would get indigestion from all the things it's eaten. My faltering tongue tries to transfer it, but all they see is gray. Wishes won't spin the words to lapis lazuli or gold. The color stays in my mind; slightly cast with depression.
One day my mouth will hold the colors of butterflies. I'll share it in a kiss if you want to speak in rainbows. A quick
snap will fill your mouth with ashes, so hold it on the tip of your tongue.
I consider this to be kind a poetry bud. There's no plot, no theme. Just images dripping down over each other. It's hard to decide what to do with it.
A cobalt flash and a tip of black
I thought I found a butterfly.
it may have been one once
but just a wing remained
still shivering with wind
and iridescence. I picked
it up and my spirits fell
as it lifted. the jeweled
scrap of sky splotched
dirty grey with my finger
tips. I looked for gems
in the swirled prints and
found only shards of dust.
The pang of further destruction
had me wondering how
it had been left behind.
there's not much you
can trump as a flower flying.
a wing shaped bit of my heart
ached, and my eyes swallowed
it for memory. I wish
I could touch it to my mouth
and take it in, spots and all
to paper four chambers
with sapphires.
One day my mouth
will hold the colors of butterflies.
I'll share it in a kiss
if you want to speak in rainbows.
perhaps the silver lining
of your lips will heal
the ashes on the tip of my tongue
and set the sky free
once again.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Waxing Lassitude
This week's taking melancholy for a walk. At least it's almost half over.
~
Malachite
Mercury
and me mellowing to music.
It's too bad that alliteration
is so passe. The sound MnMing
drips metal down the chords
and limns the notes in pewter.
One forgets the poisoned green
on the other side in indignant
art. To breathe words in
toxinated moue with grammar.
To be drunk in silver triads.
More than any alkaloid star
this merge of melody and
mine drugs pain
into silence.
~
Malachite
Mercury
and me mellowing to music.
It's too bad that alliteration
is so passe. The sound MnMing
drips metal down the chords
and limns the notes in pewter.
One forgets the poisoned green
on the other side in indignant
art. To breathe words in
toxinated moue with grammar.
To be drunk in silver triads.
More than any alkaloid star
this merge of melody and
mine drugs pain
into silence.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Munching on a new leaf.
How nice to spend a couple of days not doing much at all. I don't really feel like editing right now, since I spent 10 hours doing quality control on data entry today. Makes me feel like looking at the most glaring error and taking it out for a drink. But I do feel like nattering on, so maybe I'll write something instead.
~
It's a quiet urge. That impulse to punch someone out. It starts somewhere around the stomach, where you're sick of listening to even another word. You repress the yell welling up in your navel. It's not that you couldn't, but the pang of satisfaction pressed against the nausea of results is just. not. worth it.
Or so you think. When the next phrase beats your ears you lurch in vertigo. Your wants have flipped so fast. The sound of your enraged screech falls behind; falls silent. The unwanted advice salts and peppers your swallowed tongue and you gag on the platitude.
If only there was a vaccine for the well intentioned. The corrosive rain eats through every umbrella proffered with a smile, and never notices it brought it's own cloud. Every stretch and slide to sink below their satisfaction. Every dance and glide wrapping their fallacious concern tighter to the infection.
~
It's a quiet urge. That impulse to punch someone out. It starts somewhere around the stomach, where you're sick of listening to even another word. You repress the yell welling up in your navel. It's not that you couldn't, but the pang of satisfaction pressed against the nausea of results is just. not. worth it.
Or so you think. When the next phrase beats your ears you lurch in vertigo. Your wants have flipped so fast. The sound of your enraged screech falls behind; falls silent. The unwanted advice salts and peppers your swallowed tongue and you gag on the platitude.
If only there was a vaccine for the well intentioned. The corrosive rain eats through every umbrella proffered with a smile, and never notices it brought it's own cloud. Every stretch and slide to sink below their satisfaction. Every dance and glide wrapping their fallacious concern tighter to the infection.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Intermission due to Fugue
This is the longest gap I've had yet. I actually did work on editing on Wednesday, but photos only. I've let myself get over tired, I'm stressed about work, and I feel like bursting into tears for no reason whatsoever. I don't even dare post on Locution right now, I'm so bizarrely out of kilter.
I shall have to do some recovery activities tomorrow, and get started again. It will be juuuuuust fine. I can keep telling myself that. There's not a lot that sleep and fudgesicles won't fix.
I shall have to do some recovery activities tomorrow, and get started again. It will be juuuuuust fine. I can keep telling myself that. There's not a lot that sleep and fudgesicles won't fix.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Moonlit Laundering
The most wonderful thing about apartment laundromats is the ability to do four loads at once. For someone like me, who procrastinates washing until the clothes pile extends flagella, it is the ultimate luxury. Not to mention the impetus to fold right away or toss everything on hangers - there was also a time when I maintained a prefold laundry life form that migrated from my bed to the floor every night.
What can I say. It takes talent to jump start evolution.
~
It's tinker time on 15. I don't think there's much to do on this one, but doesn't hurt to take a look. ;>
Company Waiting
The weighty slap of water on rocks
falling waves on rubbled coral
I stand on pronged cold lava
over the pinched glare of crabs
it's left salt, the ocean has
a gift for this outcrop
the empty stone bubbles
a memory of fire cupping air
now hold white glittering
nothing so cold as diamonds
but the warm taste of blood
saline and iron where I lick
the palm of the land
kissed by the sea
A child such as I
came from this womb of earth and heaven
under the early sun I climb out again
to watch it rise in volcanic fog
this time the air is warm and the rock cold
but a few pools over the water trapped
is blue and staring at the sky
in what year will that home
send someone forth
someone else with salt in their veins
to meet in the crisp air.
I think the hardest part is thinking up titles. It's like framing a picture. It can enhance the meaning or destroy it. I always have the urge to play it safe and bland. I guess I have more fun watching how people choose to react instead of dictating it to them.
What can I say. It takes talent to jump start evolution.
~
It's tinker time on 15. I don't think there's much to do on this one, but doesn't hurt to take a look. ;>
Company Waiting
The weighty slap of water on rocks
falling waves on rubbled coral
I stand on pronged cold lava
over the pinched glare of crabs
it's left salt, the ocean has
a gift for this outcrop
the empty stone bubbles
a memory of fire cupping air
now hold white glittering
nothing so cold as diamonds
but the warm taste of blood
saline and iron where I lick
the palm of the land
kissed by the sea
A child such as I
came from this womb of earth and heaven
under the early sun I climb out again
to watch it rise in volcanic fog
this time the air is warm and the rock cold
but a few pools over the water trapped
is blue and staring at the sky
in what year will that home
send someone forth
someone else with salt in their veins
to meet in the crisp air.
I think the hardest part is thinking up titles. It's like framing a picture. It can enhance the meaning or destroy it. I always have the urge to play it safe and bland. I guess I have more fun watching how people choose to react instead of dictating it to them.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Mourning my Monday
I'm tired. I'm being silly and staying up to ridiculous hours, eating stuff that's bad for me, and generally not taking care of myself. Ah well. I'm entitled to be stupid now and then. You'd think that I would say, "Self, you've got a very demanding day going on tomorrow. GET YOUR BUTT IN BED!"
You know, I think I must have problems with authority. I don't seem to listen to that voice in my head very well. I must not have enough practice.
~
Ok. Here we go in a different direction.
i keep looking at the stars
they're far from this old ocean floor
and hazed in a flood of street lights
just a handful shine; pollux, sirius, bits of ursae
the seven sisters haven't come in ages
i should climb the mountains and visit
where they creep out when you come close
head above the clouds but beneath their worship
i want to convert, and baptize myself in zero gee
far beyond whatever splash of milk may weigh me
to fall down the well. spiraled out the long arm
the law of gravity left dancing in my wake of stars
and vogons aside, the light of ancient days
etching poems on my skin. i want to fight
past the static reflection on my glass door
pushing me in from the night
You know, I think I must have problems with authority. I don't seem to listen to that voice in my head very well. I must not have enough practice.
~
Ok. Here we go in a different direction.
i keep looking at the stars
they're far from this old ocean floor
and hazed in a flood of street lights
just a handful shine; pollux, sirius, bits of ursae
the seven sisters haven't come in ages
i should climb the mountains and visit
where they creep out when you come close
head above the clouds but beneath their worship
i want to convert, and baptize myself in zero gee
far beyond whatever splash of milk may weigh me
to fall down the well. spiraled out the long arm
the law of gravity left dancing in my wake of stars
and vogons aside, the light of ancient days
etching poems on my skin. i want to fight
past the static reflection on my glass door
pushing me in from the night
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Slow Start
I'm having a much harder time getting myself started than I thought. I usually stuff everything under the bed until I'm ready to deal with it. This has the end result of my mattress being a major fire hazard and I'll never be a Princess disturbed by a Pea. Or even a bushel of peas.
But now that I have to do it on this blog, what the heck am I supposed to be doing? Do I hammer it out in my post? Do I abuse it and myself off line and then post the next incarnation? It's really making me cranky. I should have dawdled until after someone else finished!
~
I'm going to spend this post messing around. This is what I usually do after a fish a piece of paper out from the springs. It's kind of like playing Rummikub, or fiddling with an abacus. I don't know that it's useful, but it's how I start playing with what might become a poem.
I'm going to whack on Day 24.
so i'm watching friends and phoebe says
she doesn't believe in gravity. i like
that. buoyant but not bright
it falls in its own well.
i want to convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
stringing along my mass, i've birthed stars
in nebulae dancing. it may be pointless but
i'd have to say that in all my worlds
there is no sense of ross.
This is a little culturally obscure. Friends was on the air a long time ago, and just because I remember this episode doesn't mean everyone's going to remember it. So I want to try the blathering version.
so ross is angry and yells
not believing in evolution is like not believing
in gravity. phoebe sez don't get me started on that.
i can't help wanting to join this new
religion. cuz while phoebe flounces
and her hair waves weightless
ross watches gobsmacked in disbelief
pointed at everything he stands for
i don't not wanna believe in darwin but
he was such a drag with his beagle and
fossils get so heavy no matter how you
weigh it. i wanna convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
where even hard evidence spins
without falling. somehow looking up
becomes sideways with nebulae under foot
worshiping newton never did me
any good and look where it got
the people in pisa. but i guess if
i am honest with my self i don't
believe in space either, only the need
for an irregular orbit in the face
of other's certainty
Strange how you can write down a crystallized feeling and not have a clue what you were talking about later. This concept is more defined. But stupid person as I am, I'm not fond of defined things. This version has almost no layered meaning, and has lost all of the word play. I'm easily amused with a low sense of humor, so saying out loud, "in zero gee string(ing)" makes me happy. Also "my massi've birthed stars." I'll try again tomorrow.
But now that I have to do it on this blog, what the heck am I supposed to be doing? Do I hammer it out in my post? Do I abuse it and myself off line and then post the next incarnation? It's really making me cranky. I should have dawdled until after someone else finished!
~
I'm going to spend this post messing around. This is what I usually do after a fish a piece of paper out from the springs. It's kind of like playing Rummikub, or fiddling with an abacus. I don't know that it's useful, but it's how I start playing with what might become a poem.
I'm going to whack on Day 24.
so i'm watching friends and phoebe says
she doesn't believe in gravity. i like
that. buoyant but not bright
it falls in its own well.
i want to convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
stringing along my mass, i've birthed stars
in nebulae dancing. it may be pointless but
i'd have to say that in all my worlds
there is no sense of ross.
This is a little culturally obscure. Friends was on the air a long time ago, and just because I remember this episode doesn't mean everyone's going to remember it. So I want to try the blathering version.
so ross is angry and yells
not believing in evolution is like not believing
in gravity. phoebe sez don't get me started on that.
i can't help wanting to join this new
religion. cuz while phoebe flounces
and her hair waves weightless
ross watches gobsmacked in disbelief
pointed at everything he stands for
i don't not wanna believe in darwin but
he was such a drag with his beagle and
fossils get so heavy no matter how you
weigh it. i wanna convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
where even hard evidence spins
without falling. somehow looking up
becomes sideways with nebulae under foot
worshiping newton never did me
any good and look where it got
the people in pisa. but i guess if
i am honest with my self i don't
believe in space either, only the need
for an irregular orbit in the face
of other's certainty
Strange how you can write down a crystallized feeling and not have a clue what you were talking about later. This concept is more defined. But stupid person as I am, I'm not fond of defined things. This version has almost no layered meaning, and has lost all of the word play. I'm easily amused with a low sense of humor, so saying out loud, "in zero gee string(ing)" makes me happy. Also "my massi've birthed stars." I'll try again tomorrow.
Friday, July 11, 2008
On the Ball Again
Here I am, sitting on my offspring's yoga ball. Since my cat is still being weird, I have draped a blanket over it. She has already tried to jump up on it twice. I wonder if there's a market for yoga ball condoms, or if it's only MY cat that's into molestation.
Apparently there are patch kits for yoga balls. It was also pointed out to me that the ball came with patches originally. So even if others do not have cats like mine, I guess there are circumstances that lead to patch use. I'm just not going to speculate on what they are.
~
I was going to write more of Ann and her parents today, but the number 30 scared me. I thought I'd write a little on how this project affected me. After all; Roux is waiting just around the corner.
One thing that slowly came to my attention was my purse notebook. I have a small leather bound book that I carry in my purse. The pages on the left are blank for sketching, and the pages on the right are lined. I usually scribble in it a little every day. On slow weeks I'll get into it three or four times. It's a life saver during meetings. I look attentive, but my brain is on auto record for projects and pictures leak out onto the pages. I have a supreme indifference to chronology. I'll write where there's space. I'll draw in any corner. The pages are not necessarily sequential. I suppose it's overflow room when my brain gets too full.
This thirty days I wrote in it twice, and sketched not at all. I guess I've been so busy that there hasn't been much to overflow. This blog has taken all the flooding, and left my notebook high and dry. I feel a little strange about it. I've enjoyed this blog enormously. I miss my notebook. Looking at things in my notebook after not seeing them for a month is fun and exciting. I want to sketch and paint. Writing in this blog has forced me to treat this art more professionally, instead of being a spoiled hobbyist.
I think that after Roux's challenge I'll have to come to a compromise. Or perhaps I'll willfully change her challenge to 30 days spread every other day. Then my notebook will have the space to slip through my fingers.
Another thing I've noticed is the element of motivation. I started it because it sounded fun to do it with everyone. It was fun. I still like to visit everyone's posts. But as more and more people dropped out, I had to find different reasons to keep going. I couldn't tell myself that so&so had posted and I had to keep up. It's very easy to not post. Work drains me. I love it to death and I am good at it, so I give it more of myself than I would if I'm bored. My family life has been interesting. Emotionally and mentally, I no longer have to/want to do things the same way. It's exhausting to be in a groove for so long and then redefine the parameters of your existence.
I'm not sure why I kept posting. I wanted to give up after my posting days got sporadic too, but I didn't. Stubborn? I can hear my family snickering at the inadequacy of that word. But it only applies to small portions of my ethics. Happiness? Doesn't cover enough. Sorry, I wasn't happy most of the time. I was downright cranky many days I forced myself to post.
I guess I just decided I would. Anything else is just a reason; not even an excuse. I just would.
I'm looking forward to Roux's thirty. I am also looking forward to my weekend, to throwing more moving boxes out, and that I've finally uncovered my watercolors. But to Marrow's 30, this is it. Ciao.
Apparently there are patch kits for yoga balls. It was also pointed out to me that the ball came with patches originally. So even if others do not have cats like mine, I guess there are circumstances that lead to patch use. I'm just not going to speculate on what they are.
~
I was going to write more of Ann and her parents today, but the number 30 scared me. I thought I'd write a little on how this project affected me. After all; Roux is waiting just around the corner.
One thing that slowly came to my attention was my purse notebook. I have a small leather bound book that I carry in my purse. The pages on the left are blank for sketching, and the pages on the right are lined. I usually scribble in it a little every day. On slow weeks I'll get into it three or four times. It's a life saver during meetings. I look attentive, but my brain is on auto record for projects and pictures leak out onto the pages. I have a supreme indifference to chronology. I'll write where there's space. I'll draw in any corner. The pages are not necessarily sequential. I suppose it's overflow room when my brain gets too full.
This thirty days I wrote in it twice, and sketched not at all. I guess I've been so busy that there hasn't been much to overflow. This blog has taken all the flooding, and left my notebook high and dry. I feel a little strange about it. I've enjoyed this blog enormously. I miss my notebook. Looking at things in my notebook after not seeing them for a month is fun and exciting. I want to sketch and paint. Writing in this blog has forced me to treat this art more professionally, instead of being a spoiled hobbyist.
I think that after Roux's challenge I'll have to come to a compromise. Or perhaps I'll willfully change her challenge to 30 days spread every other day. Then my notebook will have the space to slip through my fingers.
Another thing I've noticed is the element of motivation. I started it because it sounded fun to do it with everyone. It was fun. I still like to visit everyone's posts. But as more and more people dropped out, I had to find different reasons to keep going. I couldn't tell myself that so&so had posted and I had to keep up. It's very easy to not post. Work drains me. I love it to death and I am good at it, so I give it more of myself than I would if I'm bored. My family life has been interesting. Emotionally and mentally, I no longer have to/want to do things the same way. It's exhausting to be in a groove for so long and then redefine the parameters of your existence.
I'm not sure why I kept posting. I wanted to give up after my posting days got sporadic too, but I didn't. Stubborn? I can hear my family snickering at the inadequacy of that word. But it only applies to small portions of my ethics. Happiness? Doesn't cover enough. Sorry, I wasn't happy most of the time. I was downright cranky many days I forced myself to post.
I guess I just decided I would. Anything else is just a reason; not even an excuse. I just would.
I'm looking forward to Roux's thirty. I am also looking forward to my weekend, to throwing more moving boxes out, and that I've finally uncovered my watercolors. But to Marrow's 30, this is it. Ciao.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Deflated
I think if I do this thirty day thing again, I'm going to do five weeks of six days each. I seem to naturally take a vacation that way. And it's like a freebie when you really, really need rescuing.
My yoga ball has passed away. My demonic cat (Oreo) scrabbled up it. Now it's deflating. My sinking spirits are matched only by this distance between my butt and the ground.
~
Slipstream. Slip the plane. That's what Grandpa would do. In his small tin can; his life; his Love. It was a little thing. Silver and shiny and only held two. Two very VERY friendly people. With narrow rears. Perhaps the plane liked it that way. It had a narrow rear too. Grandpa called it a taildragger. I always wanted to hang a tail from the tail. Something tigerish, or boa. Something that went with the Silver Mistress lettering on the nose. When ever I looked at it I wondered what Grandma had thought. Any of them. Grandpa had gotten married a few times.
But the plane didn't behave like the staid airliners. They were boring in their slow takeoffs and landings. Grandpa would float near the runway. A dandelion seed not finished with its flight, you'd think it wouldn't come to the ground til a mile later. Then came the slip.
The wings would angle but the plane wouldn't bank. It was the elevator; the roller coaster; the startled awakening from a falling dream. We'd all fall. Just a bit. Just enough to slide teasing toward the ground. He'd tilt the wings back in a parachuting whoosh, and we'd glide to the tarmac. His smile caused a large crevasse in his beard. And he'd say it. He always said it. The headphones would come off. He'd turn and beam.
"Cheated death again!"
Sister said he cheated death with a lot of people. I wonder what Grandma thought about that too. Any of them.
My yoga ball has passed away. My demonic cat (Oreo) scrabbled up it. Now it's deflating. My sinking spirits are matched only by this distance between my butt and the ground.
~
Slipstream. Slip the plane. That's what Grandpa would do. In his small tin can; his life; his Love. It was a little thing. Silver and shiny and only held two. Two very VERY friendly people. With narrow rears. Perhaps the plane liked it that way. It had a narrow rear too. Grandpa called it a taildragger. I always wanted to hang a tail from the tail. Something tigerish, or boa. Something that went with the Silver Mistress lettering on the nose. When ever I looked at it I wondered what Grandma had thought. Any of them. Grandpa had gotten married a few times.
But the plane didn't behave like the staid airliners. They were boring in their slow takeoffs and landings. Grandpa would float near the runway. A dandelion seed not finished with its flight, you'd think it wouldn't come to the ground til a mile later. Then came the slip.
The wings would angle but the plane wouldn't bank. It was the elevator; the roller coaster; the startled awakening from a falling dream. We'd all fall. Just a bit. Just enough to slide teasing toward the ground. He'd tilt the wings back in a parachuting whoosh, and we'd glide to the tarmac. His smile caused a large crevasse in his beard. And he'd say it. He always said it. The headphones would come off. He'd turn and beam.
"Cheated death again!"
Sister said he cheated death with a lot of people. I wonder what Grandma thought about that too. Any of them.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Faxed
I've been thinking how many days lately I've been spending in worshipful servitude to electronic appliances. The office I work in has an amazing collection of plastic boxes dedicated to copying, stapling, scanning, faxing, and punching holes in paper. There's a particular shrine area in which we congregate and receive instruction. The red light flashing portends deified wrath; the indignation of paper jams, a fall in ream offerings, or simply the need for a wandering saint, Mr. Contract Serviceman.
There's even a little ergonomic prayer mat on which you may stand and request that your wish be granted. There are little screens to lead the ritual chants, and reminders on the timing and sequence of the button pressing. Correct living will eventually lead you to that holiest of grails, Toner Bottle O'rflowing.
The problem is that you have a small core group of office skeptics, of which I am a part. I have a secret heretic yearning for the digital messiah to gain acceptance in her own land of energetic images. Iconoclasm, anyone?
There's even a little ergonomic prayer mat on which you may stand and request that your wish be granted. There are little screens to lead the ritual chants, and reminders on the timing and sequence of the button pressing. Correct living will eventually lead you to that holiest of grails, Toner Bottle O'rflowing.
The problem is that you have a small core group of office skeptics, of which I am a part. I have a secret heretic yearning for the digital messiah to gain acceptance in her own land of energetic images. Iconoclasm, anyone?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Back to the X
It's getting a little lonely in the 30 Days. I don't know if life fell like a ton of bricks, or people got perfectionist. Maybe they're typing furiously away at their joint secrecy project. I hope so; it would mean that everyone was having fun. I'm going to keep plodding along. If I go back and do Day 25, (or whatever it was that I missed,) I'll have three days left.
I'm also starting to sort out the heaps of stuff in the house. After I got out of the old house I fell into a dormant state. I played lots of solitaire. Read tons of manga. Joined the cat in watching Mouse TV. It's nice to wake up and put books on shelves. My mat cutter is tucked in, and the corner samples in a row. I'll cross my fingers for successful sorting this week.
~
Ann's fingers tapped about the bottom of the clutch. The gum huddled in the corner but the keys tried to nip. She found something long and thinnish hiding next to her license. A jolt of surprise had her peering into the depths.
It was a crayon. It was a very large pink crayon, of the sort to make all Harolds die of envy. She huffed in exasperation. A year or so ago they all thought it was cute to graffiti their texts with them, and she hadn't used this clutch since her last birthday. Ann thought a bit. Wax just wasn't going to cut it. The last birthday had been even worse than this one, and she has circumspectly drawn hearts all over the linen napkin. The waiter hadn't said anything; but he'd already helped three kick me purse dogs and looked a little frazzled.
The crayon fit nicely in the vase with all the fake carnations. The color wasn't a bad match either. A few leaves decided it was autumn, and Ann stuffed them in the tiny drawer of the accent table. The jackpot noises rang between her ears when the drawer opened. There was a pocket copy of the Zen Koran, a notepad, and a ballpoint pen.
I'm also starting to sort out the heaps of stuff in the house. After I got out of the old house I fell into a dormant state. I played lots of solitaire. Read tons of manga. Joined the cat in watching Mouse TV. It's nice to wake up and put books on shelves. My mat cutter is tucked in, and the corner samples in a row. I'll cross my fingers for successful sorting this week.
~
Ann's fingers tapped about the bottom of the clutch. The gum huddled in the corner but the keys tried to nip. She found something long and thinnish hiding next to her license. A jolt of surprise had her peering into the depths.
It was a crayon. It was a very large pink crayon, of the sort to make all Harolds die of envy. She huffed in exasperation. A year or so ago they all thought it was cute to graffiti their texts with them, and she hadn't used this clutch since her last birthday. Ann thought a bit. Wax just wasn't going to cut it. The last birthday had been even worse than this one, and she has circumspectly drawn hearts all over the linen napkin. The waiter hadn't said anything; but he'd already helped three kick me purse dogs and looked a little frazzled.
The crayon fit nicely in the vase with all the fake carnations. The color wasn't a bad match either. A few leaves decided it was autumn, and Ann stuffed them in the tiny drawer of the accent table. The jackpot noises rang between her ears when the drawer opened. There was a pocket copy of the Zen Koran, a notepad, and a ballpoint pen.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A Bit of Stage Fright
I have recently gotten a Wii. Between overtime and a gifting from my mom, I decided to really splurge. Now I can go back to being poor until January. But in the meantime, I have a system, a number of controllers, and a box that says "Rock Band." Scares the behiebbies outta me. If the offspring were here, there would be packing material everywhere. Unholy noises blasting to the horrifying of the neighbors. I'd be grappling with the controllers to save my life. Which is pretty accurate, considering I must maintain gaming superiority in my house at least a little longer.
But I find myself staring at the box and telling myself, "At least wait until the living room is clean." What is this chickening out? You'd think I didn't WANT to cavort on stage in lycra and shabby grunge under sweltering lights with unmedicated people jumping at my feet.
And I can't believe it's been almost a month. I'm missing two days. I think I will postpone the inevitable and have a revisiting for a full 30. Then I can go from Marrow's to Roux's.
~
The bathroom was very quiet. The door shuffed behind her with a deadened plonk; it had no qualms about the soundproofing. The designer obviously had followed a different concept as far as bathrooms went. The plush carpet stopped just shy of the marble under the sinks, and a row of discreet boudoir doors hid any attempt at plumbing. The high backed chaise across from the mirrored wall was plum with verdigris trim.
Ann sat carefully in the center. In spite of its secret yearning to be an eggplant in the next life, it was very comfortable. Really, it was beautifully quiet in here. The silence only wrinkled its nose at the fountain masquerading as a faucet. She slipped off her heels and lowered slowly down on the chaise. Lounging was a thing she was sure the bathroom would disapprove of, but it felt very good.
The headache creeping up on her was taken aback. With any luck, she could get her shoulders to relax and rout it entirely. Ann wondered how long she could stay here without being missed. It would depend on whether the internship speculation collided head on with apprenticeship and folk art. That might provide enough time for a nap. But if they wandered into dressing appropriately she'd be hauled out in ninety more seconds.
She winced her eyes closed and fumbled for her clutch. Was there still a pen in there? The water splashing in the basin sounded like blood splashing. Or ink. It seemed to be a sign.
But I find myself staring at the box and telling myself, "At least wait until the living room is clean." What is this chickening out? You'd think I didn't WANT to cavort on stage in lycra and shabby grunge under sweltering lights with unmedicated people jumping at my feet.
And I can't believe it's been almost a month. I'm missing two days. I think I will postpone the inevitable and have a revisiting for a full 30. Then I can go from Marrow's to Roux's.
~
The bathroom was very quiet. The door shuffed behind her with a deadened plonk; it had no qualms about the soundproofing. The designer obviously had followed a different concept as far as bathrooms went. The plush carpet stopped just shy of the marble under the sinks, and a row of discreet boudoir doors hid any attempt at plumbing. The high backed chaise across from the mirrored wall was plum with verdigris trim.
Ann sat carefully in the center. In spite of its secret yearning to be an eggplant in the next life, it was very comfortable. Really, it was beautifully quiet in here. The silence only wrinkled its nose at the fountain masquerading as a faucet. She slipped off her heels and lowered slowly down on the chaise. Lounging was a thing she was sure the bathroom would disapprove of, but it felt very good.
The headache creeping up on her was taken aback. With any luck, she could get her shoulders to relax and rout it entirely. Ann wondered how long she could stay here without being missed. It would depend on whether the internship speculation collided head on with apprenticeship and folk art. That might provide enough time for a nap. But if they wandered into dressing appropriately she'd be hauled out in ninety more seconds.
She winced her eyes closed and fumbled for her clutch. Was there still a pen in there? The water splashing in the basin sounded like blood splashing. Or ink. It seemed to be a sign.
Ice Cream and Hancock
I watched Hancock today. I enjoyed it, but experienced a deep desire to rewrite whole sections of it. I watched a little of the fireworks. I'd give the previous night's thunderstorm better reviews. I also spent 10 hours of overtime at work. I'm toasted. There seems to be a pattern developing here.
~
Twenty words for Ann:
chiffon, sleek, umber, pomegranate, leap, tweed, seek, sink, hesitate, precise, somber, sample, concise, yearn, lick, lucid, flash, red, grit, pulse.
Mom:
aloft, chintz, motored, crisp, apple, blade, ride, organ, screen, circuit, perform, beaded, caramel, juice, truant, left, kite, score, scorn, select.
Father:
brocade, earth, hare, seed, hedge, slate, trump, turnip, plane, target, gar, dry, length, glory, rustic, raven, lock, fire, key, sledge.
~
Twenty words for Ann:
chiffon, sleek, umber, pomegranate, leap, tweed, seek, sink, hesitate, precise, somber, sample, concise, yearn, lick, lucid, flash, red, grit, pulse.
Mom:
aloft, chintz, motored, crisp, apple, blade, ride, organ, screen, circuit, perform, beaded, caramel, juice, truant, left, kite, score, scorn, select.
Father:
brocade, earth, hare, seed, hedge, slate, trump, turnip, plane, target, gar, dry, length, glory, rustic, raven, lock, fire, key, sledge.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Another Miss
Well. I missed another entry yesterday. I feel only mildly guilty; I enjoyed the concert very much. The music was fun, the company great, and the people watching was amazing! I couldn't hear myself think, I growled at a busboy who was trying to take my sprite, and every time I turned around different people were sitting at the table next door. Some of them were doing interesting things. And through it all, the thundering bass rumble syncopated my heartbeat.
I left my purse with the sketchbook at home and didn't take a camera. I have never had such withdrawal pangs in my entire life. Bikini woman exists only in my head now. The guy with gorgeous long amber hair with the lungs on his t-shirt is already sepia around the edges. I wanted to sing walking back to the car at 1am, but my ears felt funny.
I need to make the occasion to go again. ;>
~
At the restaurant Ann pushed her salad around. Abusing vegetables was more interesting than the conversation. "I thought Ann would be applying to a good woman's college."
The grape tomatos looked like eyes, but there were three of them. "Just because you went to a women's college doesn't mean that Ann wants to."
"I'm thinking of her future. Being a professional bum is not good enough for her." The rings of purple onion held the croûtons fairly well. But the carrots kept escaping.
There went the radish. "Let's leave my job out of this. I think she'd be better off going to a school closer to home the first couple of years."
Ann felt her eyebrows scowling and smoothed them out. Even if they wanted to leap into the fray, they were overplucked for the conflict. Not a hair of harshness left to her. She bit her tongue lying docile in her palate, then twisted her mouth in pain. The salty iron cut past the sweet dressing and gagged her.
"Honey, drink your water and don't choke, ok? Your skin will look terrible if you don't hydrate."
The salad fork clattered against the plate before she could put it down gently. Ann placed her napkin carefully two inches to the left. The cutlery for the other courses glittered at her. "I am going," she picked up her clutch, "to refresh myself."
Their voices nipped each other behind until she rounded the corner. Ann let herself grimace. If she was going to write at all, she'd write both of them out. They'd look good in natural black, drawn thin. The door to the bathroom ate the forceful shove and closed behind her in a tiny click.
I left my purse with the sketchbook at home and didn't take a camera. I have never had such withdrawal pangs in my entire life. Bikini woman exists only in my head now. The guy with gorgeous long amber hair with the lungs on his t-shirt is already sepia around the edges. I wanted to sing walking back to the car at 1am, but my ears felt funny.
I need to make the occasion to go again. ;>
~
At the restaurant Ann pushed her salad around. Abusing vegetables was more interesting than the conversation. "I thought Ann would be applying to a good woman's college."
The grape tomatos looked like eyes, but there were three of them. "Just because you went to a women's college doesn't mean that Ann wants to."
"I'm thinking of her future. Being a professional bum is not good enough for her." The rings of purple onion held the croûtons fairly well. But the carrots kept escaping.
There went the radish. "Let's leave my job out of this. I think she'd be better off going to a school closer to home the first couple of years."
Ann felt her eyebrows scowling and smoothed them out. Even if they wanted to leap into the fray, they were overplucked for the conflict. Not a hair of harshness left to her. She bit her tongue lying docile in her palate, then twisted her mouth in pain. The salty iron cut past the sweet dressing and gagged her.
"Honey, drink your water and don't choke, ok? Your skin will look terrible if you don't hydrate."
The salad fork clattered against the plate before she could put it down gently. Ann placed her napkin carefully two inches to the left. The cutlery for the other courses glittered at her. "I am going," she picked up her clutch, "to refresh myself."
Their voices nipped each other behind until she rounded the corner. Ann let herself grimace. If she was going to write at all, she'd write both of them out. They'd look good in natural black, drawn thin. The door to the bathroom ate the forceful shove and closed behind her in a tiny click.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Concerted Effort
I am going to a smallish rock concert tomorrow. I have no idea where it is. I have no idea who it is. I've met most of the people I'm going with just once. I don't even know if it's truly going to be on, or if it's been canceled. I'm told the rumors go both ways. I'm enormously happy! Not only to be going to a theoretically extant concert; but also with the general declaration of all concerned to go look for SOMETHING if the concert pans out. I wonder what we'll find...?
~
so i'm watching friends and phoebe says
she doesn't believe in gravity. i like
that. buoyant but not bright
it falls in its own well.
i want to convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
stringing along my mass, i've birthed stars
in nebulae dancing. it may be pointless but
i'd have to say that in all my worlds
there is no sense of ross.
~
so i'm watching friends and phoebe says
she doesn't believe in gravity. i like
that. buoyant but not bright
it falls in its own well.
i want to convert
and baptize myself in zero gee
stringing along my mass, i've birthed stars
in nebulae dancing. it may be pointless but
i'd have to say that in all my worlds
there is no sense of ross.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Falling off the Ball
The other day at work I was so tired that I almost fell asleep on top of my yoga ball. Luckily I startled awake before I fell off. Well. Before I fell off more than a little bit. At least I didn't fall over in a great THUMP, like a did at Halloween. My wooden sword fell on top of me too. It really wasn't an auspicious day. Which reminds me: next year I want to celebrate another Halloween on the last day of April. All those people who do that "Christmas in July" have not seen anything yet!
~
It's hot in the laundromat. I can't help it; the tumbling, spinning frenzy spreading energy to the four corners. Outside at three it was 109, but inside at nine it feels hardly less than 103. I'm wilting faster than the clothes. It's only June. Mentally I review every law, every code that forces even a stitch more on. It's all tied up.
No wonder I'm spending so much time here. I have only to walk out the door for sweat to be standing on my skin. My pants could stand by themselves~they're so fortified with trace minerals.
~
This is not working. I put it off too late, and I slid off the ball and almost fell asleep. Dang it; I wish shift change would hurry up and come, because I'm going nuts. Although it's really more like being comatose, energywise. I hate it when I get like this.
~
It's hot in the laundromat. I can't help it; the tumbling, spinning frenzy spreading energy to the four corners. Outside at three it was 109, but inside at nine it feels hardly less than 103. I'm wilting faster than the clothes. It's only June. Mentally I review every law, every code that forces even a stitch more on. It's all tied up.
No wonder I'm spending so much time here. I have only to walk out the door for sweat to be standing on my skin. My pants could stand by themselves~they're so fortified with trace minerals.
~
This is not working. I put it off too late, and I slid off the ball and almost fell asleep. Dang it; I wish shift change would hurry up and come, because I'm going nuts. Although it's really more like being comatose, energywise. I hate it when I get like this.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Inertia and Snack Pack Pudding
I really, really do not want to write tonight. I don't want to do anything, as a matter of fact. I don't want to clean, cook, draw, read, or even sleep. That doesn't leave a whole lot left to do. I've even run out of Snack Pack, which is the the ultimate palliative for ennui. I should go to sleep before the emo aura runs amok. Unfortunately I'm not that smart.
~
A chuff of paper
cuts through the spring
of office conversation.
~
A chuff of paper
cuts through the spring
of office conversation.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Over a Fortnight
I've been attacked by music. I turned on ye old itunes while I cleaned my house today, and organized for four hours. So my playlist cycled through stuff I didn't even know I had, and I danced while putting books on the shelves. Then I sang sorting laundry. Then I had to buy another media shelf for all the albums I now need to pick up.
I don't know where all this music came from. The domestic other must have snuck them on while I wasn't looking. And since I'm the sort of person that feels strongly about paying artists for the work they do, now I have to budget for scads of new discs. Including ones that I used to own, but are now only on visitation.
I think I would willingly eat, sleep, and sit on the floor as long as I could keep my reading and listening habits fed.
~
The wadded wrapping paper hit Mom's butt on the way out the door. She returned an aggravated laugh that bounded down the hall. Really, the world turned upside down whenever Mom came to visit. Ann flopped over and looked at the book. She wasn't going to write, she was not. The carpet fibers itched her cheek. The book had lumped onto its face when she'd grabbed the paper. The scattering of cherry blossoms down the front hid against the rug, leaving a sober black back a few inches from her nose. At this distance she could see mulberry fibers in the paper. Their silky sheen drew her hand to touch it once more.
"Cripes." Ann yanked her hand back. All her breath went out in a huff, and she slung the book onto a shelf. It was already more than full; the sudden addition cascaded wobbling heaps to clunk on the floor. One dark corner peeked from under the bodies of its companions. Ann grabbed her purse and scrabbled for the door. Dodging the remains of giggles, she skimmed out the door to the restaurant.
I don't know where all this music came from. The domestic other must have snuck them on while I wasn't looking. And since I'm the sort of person that feels strongly about paying artists for the work they do, now I have to budget for scads of new discs. Including ones that I used to own, but are now only on visitation.
I think I would willingly eat, sleep, and sit on the floor as long as I could keep my reading and listening habits fed.
~
The wadded wrapping paper hit Mom's butt on the way out the door. She returned an aggravated laugh that bounded down the hall. Really, the world turned upside down whenever Mom came to visit. Ann flopped over and looked at the book. She wasn't going to write, she was not. The carpet fibers itched her cheek. The book had lumped onto its face when she'd grabbed the paper. The scattering of cherry blossoms down the front hid against the rug, leaving a sober black back a few inches from her nose. At this distance she could see mulberry fibers in the paper. Their silky sheen drew her hand to touch it once more.
"Cripes." Ann yanked her hand back. All her breath went out in a huff, and she slung the book onto a shelf. It was already more than full; the sudden addition cascaded wobbling heaps to clunk on the floor. One dark corner peeked from under the bodies of its companions. Ann grabbed her purse and scrabbled for the door. Dodging the remains of giggles, she skimmed out the door to the restaurant.
Late Night Haze
At this time of night, I get to the really deep questions. Like, Why is Jones soda so good? When will my cat stop nagging me? Where do old B movies go when it rains?
It occurs to me now that blogging is a very dangerous thing. I shall write a pittance and go to sleep.
~
The note book was new, but it had come a little shabby. You could see that a lot of people had picked it up and almost bought it. Ann picked it up too. It looked hand made. She flipped it over and saw the bar code. Perhaps the materials had faked her out. She opened the cover. The paper looked hand made and probably wasn't either. If the world was just, or even just exciting, when opened it she should have been sucked into another world.
If it could merely make her words and sketches float off the page to life, that would also be acceptable. Ann rubbed the black spine thoughtfully. The nubby texture of the paper felt good. She placed the book on the wrapping paper in a careful bump. "Thanks Mom."
Mom had a smile creeping out. Ann eyed her with reservations. "Thinking about laughing?"
"Oh, no. You seem underwhelmed with your present."
"Of course not. I'm just whelmed. Nothing under about it."
"...Just?"
Ann hesitated. "Well. It's just empty."
Mom reached out and tousled her head on the way through the door. "There speaks a girl who was buried in an avalanche of library books this summer." The maternal glance delivered sermon and homily in a three second look. "It's your book; you fill it."
It occurs to me now that blogging is a very dangerous thing. I shall write a pittance and go to sleep.
~
The note book was new, but it had come a little shabby. You could see that a lot of people had picked it up and almost bought it. Ann picked it up too. It looked hand made. She flipped it over and saw the bar code. Perhaps the materials had faked her out. She opened the cover. The paper looked hand made and probably wasn't either. If the world was just, or even just exciting, when opened it she should have been sucked into another world.
If it could merely make her words and sketches float off the page to life, that would also be acceptable. Ann rubbed the black spine thoughtfully. The nubby texture of the paper felt good. She placed the book on the wrapping paper in a careful bump. "Thanks Mom."
Mom had a smile creeping out. Ann eyed her with reservations. "Thinking about laughing?"
"Oh, no. You seem underwhelmed with your present."
"Of course not. I'm just whelmed. Nothing under about it."
"...Just?"
Ann hesitated. "Well. It's just empty."
Mom reached out and tousled her head on the way through the door. "There speaks a girl who was buried in an avalanche of library books this summer." The maternal glance delivered sermon and homily in a three second look. "It's your book; you fill it."
Friday, June 27, 2008
Excess of Verbiage
Arch gave me a wonderful compliment the other day about my use of words. She also snorted at me. I consider the second a much higher accolade. I do absolutely adore words. They're more essential than oxygen and better than chocolate. (Heresy!) But I wish I had something to SAY.
What good is it to have skill with words if all you emit are amiable nothings? My core is better buffered than the strictest nuclear reactor. Wonderful for getting along peacefully with family, spouse and coworkers. Also results in tepid prose. I need to find a way past that, but am at a standstill.
~
Newly narcotic
these cold
sweet cherries
bleed on
my tongue
their dark
purple gush
hides the
taste of
my tears
I can't
stop a
salty leak
of anger
too thin
to burn
fiery ire
why don't
you want
me any
more?
What good is it to have skill with words if all you emit are amiable nothings? My core is better buffered than the strictest nuclear reactor. Wonderful for getting along peacefully with family, spouse and coworkers. Also results in tepid prose. I need to find a way past that, but am at a standstill.
~
Newly narcotic
these cold
sweet cherries
bleed on
my tongue
their dark
purple gush
hides the
taste of
my tears
I can't
stop a
salty leak
of anger
too thin
to burn
fiery ire
why don't
you want
me any
more?
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
My Girl Friday
It's my Friday! I suppose I could cry if I wanted to, but life's too short. The ups man came while I was working today. He left my SSBB game in the caretaking of the complex's office. I shall perform recon tomorrow, on my Saturday-Thursday. I shall get it back! It's a good thing that time is illusionary, because shift work is destroying my understanding of it.
~
I've done it again. In a flash
tumbled in a booth and changed
into My Girl Friday. Defender of
the tasks of martyrdom and helpfulness.
A superpower of Can't say No!
Trouble is, they've skimped on
public service these days of late.
Not even lycra covers enough ass
in this half shelter. Gone are the
closed doors for quiet calls. I've got
everything hanging out. A passing
boy looks up being towed by his mom.
He's perplexed by my frantic notions. Excuse me,
my butt has fallen and can't get up.
~
I've done it again. In a flash
tumbled in a booth and changed
into My Girl Friday. Defender of
the tasks of martyrdom and helpfulness.
A superpower of Can't say No!
Trouble is, they've skimped on
public service these days of late.
Not even lycra covers enough ass
in this half shelter. Gone are the
closed doors for quiet calls. I've got
everything hanging out. A passing
boy looks up being towed by his mom.
He's perplexed by my frantic notions. Excuse me,
my butt has fallen and can't get up.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Reversion Aversion
I seem to be going backward of late. It's very disconcerting. I don't know why they call it two steps forward, one step back. It's more like freeze tag on a moving sidewalk. A tango on the escalator. I vacillate between what I was and what I'm becoming, and the frequency is way too high.
This means that by all means I must buy Rock Band this weekend. And a camera. The combination is sure to prove frightening.
~
It's a good time to be alive. At what other end of any century have they walked with gods like we do; where Adam's finger rests on Enter. Any day you can step into heaven and youtube. Perhaps not the lord of all you survey, but remaking each piece in your image. Yesterday I bounced with penguins. Today I sweat with polar bears. Animated, I step along the memewalk of life. You can't really call it the boredwalk any more.
Walking by the chats you hear strange noises. I'd go in, but it's a whole new realm of don't ask don't tell. Dipping through one a minute scars me for life. I'll build my own room instead. Populated in beanbags, it's surprisingly lonely in spite the crowd. We all seem to be listening to different drum sets. If I trade 'pods, will it cure the off the beaten feeling?
Now I'll wade into a game. More wars with greater cheer than has ever bled on earth. There's commentary. Debriefings. Reviews and ratings and springboard plots and art and the genesis of all this life makes me dizzy. At what point will my heart will sink in the network electric? One day I will grow up to be, not a doctor or athlete or clerk, but a thought dancing.
This means that by all means I must buy Rock Band this weekend. And a camera. The combination is sure to prove frightening.
~
It's a good time to be alive. At what other end of any century have they walked with gods like we do; where Adam's finger rests on Enter. Any day you can step into heaven and youtube. Perhaps not the lord of all you survey, but remaking each piece in your image. Yesterday I bounced with penguins. Today I sweat with polar bears. Animated, I step along the memewalk of life. You can't really call it the boredwalk any more.
Walking by the chats you hear strange noises. I'd go in, but it's a whole new realm of don't ask don't tell. Dipping through one a minute scars me for life. I'll build my own room instead. Populated in beanbags, it's surprisingly lonely in spite the crowd. We all seem to be listening to different drum sets. If I trade 'pods, will it cure the off the beaten feeling?
Now I'll wade into a game. More wars with greater cheer than has ever bled on earth. There's commentary. Debriefings. Reviews and ratings and springboard plots and art and the genesis of all this life makes me dizzy. At what point will my heart will sink in the network electric? One day I will grow up to be, not a doctor or athlete or clerk, but a thought dancing.
Monday, June 23, 2008
A Matter of Resonance
I heard that a band that I liked was coming in concert. I then had an entirely foreign idea: Why not go? The concept was so shocking it took my breath away. Go? To a concert?
The truth is, I've been to scads of classical music concerts (including PDQ Bach) but only one popular music concert. And I was dragged to the Beach Boys, of all things. Plays, yes. Stage musicals, always. Rock bands...? I'm not quite sure how I grew up so deficient.
I think that this time period - in my apartment before the offspring come back - is the first time I've been truly alone. Large family, college in my hometown, married half way through college; dang it, I wish I had been alone sooner! Then I would not be sitting here in my skin with a stranger saying, "Well. Do I like to go to concerts? Let's find out."
~
I wake in a puddle of sound each morning
with clock decibels dripping in my alarmed ears.
It splatters echoes in the shower
mutters bubbles in the oatmeal
A warm up for stepping through
the front door into a torrent
without an umbrella.
Waves of purring engines and growling honks
spats of radios posing for their audience while
Sir Overcoat is yelling at the dumpsters again
and doppelgangers pass with cells leeched on their ears.
I roll up my windows
so the noise hits the glass and trickles down.
I'll wash it off tomorrow; all this noise
If only I can find a quiet moment.
The truth is, I've been to scads of classical music concerts (including PDQ Bach) but only one popular music concert. And I was dragged to the Beach Boys, of all things. Plays, yes. Stage musicals, always. Rock bands...? I'm not quite sure how I grew up so deficient.
I think that this time period - in my apartment before the offspring come back - is the first time I've been truly alone. Large family, college in my hometown, married half way through college; dang it, I wish I had been alone sooner! Then I would not be sitting here in my skin with a stranger saying, "Well. Do I like to go to concerts? Let's find out."
~
I wake in a puddle of sound each morning
with clock decibels dripping in my alarmed ears.
It splatters echoes in the shower
mutters bubbles in the oatmeal
A warm up for stepping through
the front door into a torrent
without an umbrella.
Waves of purring engines and growling honks
spats of radios posing for their audience while
Sir Overcoat is yelling at the dumpsters again
and doppelgangers pass with cells leeched on their ears.
I roll up my windows
so the noise hits the glass and trickles down.
I'll wash it off tomorrow; all this noise
If only I can find a quiet moment.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Half Phase Out of Step
It's been a loopy day. Work is having rumbles of indigestion in the social and staffing arenas. I predict a near future with lots of overtime. I woke up with a cold stalking me. It's just waiting for a moment of weakness. That means an early bed time for me. :p
That's the biggest problem with mandatory overtime in conjunction with divorcing. There's just not a whole lot of time left over. It's really getting to the awake REM deprivation state. Which is to say, because I haven't done very much unwinding lately, the pressure to DO stuff is getting pretty intense.
I'm getting to the point where working in Antarctica sounds really, really good. Parasailing? In a heartbeat. Bicycling across Canada? Let's go! Which reminds me, somewhere on my calendar it says Irish Pub. I still haven't been to one! C'mon, Phalmy! Arch can meet us there!
Buuuuuut, until I release some energy I will be strange. I mean, more so than usual. Let me just hang up the Quarantine sign and dig in. ;>
~
The weighty slap of water on rocks
the fall of waves on rubbled coral
standing on the pronged cold lava
over the sour glance of crabs
it's left salt, the ocean has
a gift for this outcrop
the empty stone bubbles
a memory of fire gently cupping air
now hold white glittering
nothing so cold as diamonds
but the warm taste of blood
saline and iron when I lick
the palm of the land
kissed by the sea
A child such as I
came from this womb of earth and heaven
under the early sun I climb out again
to watch it rise in volcanic fog
this time the air is warm and the rock cold
but a few pools over
the trapped water is blue
and staring at the sky
in what year will that home
send someone forth
someone else with salt in their veins
to meet in the crisp air.
That's the biggest problem with mandatory overtime in conjunction with divorcing. There's just not a whole lot of time left over. It's really getting to the awake REM deprivation state. Which is to say, because I haven't done very much unwinding lately, the pressure to DO stuff is getting pretty intense.
I'm getting to the point where working in Antarctica sounds really, really good. Parasailing? In a heartbeat. Bicycling across Canada? Let's go! Which reminds me, somewhere on my calendar it says Irish Pub. I still haven't been to one! C'mon, Phalmy! Arch can meet us there!
Buuuuuut, until I release some energy I will be strange. I mean, more so than usual. Let me just hang up the Quarantine sign and dig in. ;>
~
The weighty slap of water on rocks
the fall of waves on rubbled coral
standing on the pronged cold lava
over the sour glance of crabs
it's left salt, the ocean has
a gift for this outcrop
the empty stone bubbles
a memory of fire gently cupping air
now hold white glittering
nothing so cold as diamonds
but the warm taste of blood
saline and iron when I lick
the palm of the land
kissed by the sea
A child such as I
came from this womb of earth and heaven
under the early sun I climb out again
to watch it rise in volcanic fog
this time the air is warm and the rock cold
but a few pools over
the trapped water is blue
and staring at the sky
in what year will that home
send someone forth
someone else with salt in their veins
to meet in the crisp air.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Swallowing Butterflies
I saw a butterfly wing today. I picked it up and feathery dust stuck to my finger tips. It seems that my prints strip the wing of glory. It's funny, but the shimmering colors don't transfer to my fingers. The cold gray blotch on the membrane matched the sharded dust on my hands.
I wonder what happened to the butterfly. We don't choose to leave our limbs behind. Was it old age, or lizards and toads and birds oh my. A wing shaped bit of my heart ached too. Such a velvet black and limpid blue will never fly again. My eyes swallow the memory for later.
So many colors on so many things. You'd think my brain would get indigestion from all the things it's eaten. My faltering tongue tries to transfer it, but all they see is gray. Wishes won't spin the words to lapis lazuli or gold. The color stays in my mind; slightly cast with depression.
One day my mouth will hold the colors of butterflies. I'll share it in a kiss if you want to speak in rainbows. A quick snap will fill your mouth with ashes, so hold it on the tip of your tongue.
I wonder what happened to the butterfly. We don't choose to leave our limbs behind. Was it old age, or lizards and toads and birds oh my. A wing shaped bit of my heart ached too. Such a velvet black and limpid blue will never fly again. My eyes swallow the memory for later.
So many colors on so many things. You'd think my brain would get indigestion from all the things it's eaten. My faltering tongue tries to transfer it, but all they see is gray. Wishes won't spin the words to lapis lazuli or gold. The color stays in my mind; slightly cast with depression.
One day my mouth will hold the colors of butterflies. I'll share it in a kiss if you want to speak in rainbows. A quick snap will fill your mouth with ashes, so hold it on the tip of your tongue.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Cat Nagging
The family cat is nagging at me. She gets irritated at this whole 30 day thing, because it makes me stay up too late. Her name is Oreo, she has tuxedo coloring, and thinks the most reasonable bed time to be 10pm.
In her opinion, I am failing my religious obligations by not going to bed and petting her. For a whole hour. I keep telling her that there's a whole lot of Not Gonna Happen there. For some reason she has little faith in what I tell her.
~
Jelly bean season is over. March and April see an acute attack of them. May and June are usually given to corpse disposal, and July has maybe one or two MIA under the bed. This is not a problem; they rarely take action in that stage of their life cycle.
So it was something of a surprise to hear a crinkle as I sat on the couch. I skooched to the left. More crinkles. I slid quietly off and waited for the next noise. Nothing. Wait, there was a clear plastic corner peeking out of the Grand Chesterfield Canyon. I leaped for the camouflaging cushion.
There they were! The AWOL group of insurgents who had escaped the baskets a month ago. They were an experienced company. I didn't think I had given much notice, but I almost lost them as they moved further down the canyon. They were stiff, quiet, and a little worse for wear under my review. I guess they knew they were in trouble. Now all I had to do was debrief them without panicking . "Gen, pass me that candy bowl..."
In her opinion, I am failing my religious obligations by not going to bed and petting her. For a whole hour. I keep telling her that there's a whole lot of Not Gonna Happen there. For some reason she has little faith in what I tell her.
~
Jelly bean season is over. March and April see an acute attack of them. May and June are usually given to corpse disposal, and July has maybe one or two MIA under the bed. This is not a problem; they rarely take action in that stage of their life cycle.
So it was something of a surprise to hear a crinkle as I sat on the couch. I skooched to the left. More crinkles. I slid quietly off and waited for the next noise. Nothing. Wait, there was a clear plastic corner peeking out of the Grand Chesterfield Canyon. I leaped for the camouflaging cushion.
There they were! The AWOL group of insurgents who had escaped the baskets a month ago. They were an experienced company. I didn't think I had given much notice, but I almost lost them as they moved further down the canyon. They were stiff, quiet, and a little worse for wear under my review. I guess they knew they were in trouble. Now all I had to do was debrief them without panicking . "Gen, pass me that candy bowl..."
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The La Brea Tar Pit Doldrums
What is it with life and its whimsical humor? I finally start recovering some energy, and it yanks it away again. I've been at training all week instead of my normal tasks. I was able to get together with the Domestic Other. He was down, so I spent time doing off the cuff cheerleading.
I was happy to do so, and his problems weren't so heavy to him after. I even held to my new mantra to not solve his problems any more. Squashed the impulse to volunteer all sorts of help. I just walked away totally drained.
I guess I'm a weird sort of introvert. Love people, love interacting with them, love seeing people being themselves... hole up like a monastic when I want to get my energy back. Need space when I'm peopled out.
Drawing recharges me. Writing drains me. But I make time to write when I'm drained, and don't draw when I want to escape. What a contrary person I've managed to become. :p
~
I used to think Ben had started the Chicken thing by kidnapping wild chickens out of the state park. That sounded a little strange, but I never questioned it. After all, Ben is the type who might just decide one day to collect chickens.
I should have known better. The last time I talked to my sister about it, she said it was because of the chicken fighting.
"But chicken fighting is illegal!"
She nodded. "But owning the fighting chickens is not, eh?"
"That's retarded!"
"As if Ben would ever get arrested for fighting them." She rolled her eyes. "But he did want to fight them. So he found a rooster on the north side of town."
I pondered this. "There are random roosters running about that side of town?"
"Erm. Well, this rooster was found running at the end of his chain, in a little circle around his little blue house."
We sat there and looked at the ceiling for a bit.
I essayed with caution. "I hadn't heard that Ben had died lately."
"He didn't. But when the two Town Boys weighed in on his front porch for a total of 575 pounds, everything was cleared up."
I snorted. "So he started trying to catch his own at the park?"
"Mnn. But he wasn't very good at sexing them at the fluff stage. Started keeping the hens in the back yard as they grew. But he hit a rooster before he got to ten."
"I don't remember a hen house."
"What house?" Lelo grinned. "They slept in the breadfruit tree. Except the rooster; he was groomed and spoiled."
I stared. "He fought it? Did he win anything? Would they even take his bet?"
She shook her head. "He never did. Couldn't stand to see it get hurt."
This time we stared at the floor. A small noise, and our eyes met in an explosion of laughter. My ribs ached, and I could hardly breathe. It was so like Ben I couldn't stop.
I was happy to do so, and his problems weren't so heavy to him after. I even held to my new mantra to not solve his problems any more. Squashed the impulse to volunteer all sorts of help. I just walked away totally drained.
I guess I'm a weird sort of introvert. Love people, love interacting with them, love seeing people being themselves... hole up like a monastic when I want to get my energy back. Need space when I'm peopled out.
Drawing recharges me. Writing drains me. But I make time to write when I'm drained, and don't draw when I want to escape. What a contrary person I've managed to become. :p
~
I used to think Ben had started the Chicken thing by kidnapping wild chickens out of the state park. That sounded a little strange, but I never questioned it. After all, Ben is the type who might just decide one day to collect chickens.
I should have known better. The last time I talked to my sister about it, she said it was because of the chicken fighting.
"But chicken fighting is illegal!"
She nodded. "But owning the fighting chickens is not, eh?"
"That's retarded!"
"As if Ben would ever get arrested for fighting them." She rolled her eyes. "But he did want to fight them. So he found a rooster on the north side of town."
I pondered this. "There are random roosters running about that side of town?"
"Erm. Well, this rooster was found running at the end of his chain, in a little circle around his little blue house."
We sat there and looked at the ceiling for a bit.
I essayed with caution. "I hadn't heard that Ben had died lately."
"He didn't. But when the two Town Boys weighed in on his front porch for a total of 575 pounds, everything was cleared up."
I snorted. "So he started trying to catch his own at the park?"
"Mnn. But he wasn't very good at sexing them at the fluff stage. Started keeping the hens in the back yard as they grew. But he hit a rooster before he got to ten."
"I don't remember a hen house."
"What house?" Lelo grinned. "They slept in the breadfruit tree. Except the rooster; he was groomed and spoiled."
I stared. "He fought it? Did he win anything? Would they even take his bet?"
She shook her head. "He never did. Couldn't stand to see it get hurt."
This time we stared at the floor. A small noise, and our eyes met in an explosion of laughter. My ribs ached, and I could hardly breathe. It was so like Ben I couldn't stop.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Lyrical, huh?
missed a day. better climb back on.
~
Expectation. Exculpation.
They bookend the sides of your conversation.
Dreams , then page after page of excuses,
but I didn't read between the lines.
Enervation. Emancipation.
Ennui sinks deep as you voice reservation.
It's hard to say who wins and who loses.
Have I wasted all my time?
At the end of love is an eternity
Please let me off this moebius strip
Each new turn brings the same old thoughts;
each round the same old trip.
~
Expectation. Exculpation.
They bookend the sides of your conversation.
Dreams , then page after page of excuses,
but I didn't read between the lines.
Enervation. Emancipation.
Ennui sinks deep as you voice reservation.
It's hard to say who wins and who loses.
Have I wasted all my time?
At the end of love is an eternity
Please let me off this moebius strip
Each new turn brings the same old thoughts;
each round the same old trip.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Return from Wilting
I love this moment when the old mood snaps and I float to the surface. That first gasp of air is wonderful. Still no oomph to write; but it doesn't matter quite yet. I'll force myself to write another bit of silliness and better things will come.
~
Just to let everyone know, I really don't like peacocks. They truly are beautiful. They are also selfish, greedy, and very, very noisy. There's a cultural park near my parents house, and one week the peacocks started to escape.
Now, I worked at said park in the afternoons. My summer/after school job. Possibly the most visual, in-your-face job I've ever had~ I sold coconuts with straws out of a canoe. My muumuu was white, royal blue, and hot pink. I wore a coconut hat on my head. WITH coconut leaf accouterments shaped like birds sticking up. And flowers.
The best part about it was the canoe was fiberglass painted to look like plastic wood, and the lagoon was only three feet deep. Got the image now?
At any rate, there were free range chickens already there. Then someone got the idea to introduce free range peacocks. They very carefully clipped their wings to keep them in the park, and promptly forgot that the feathers grow back.
One day - or night. Or morning. I don't really know and don't care to experience it again - an unholy shriek yanked me out of bed by the ear and sprawled me on the floor. Obviously a serial killer had decided to eat someone alive outside my bedroom window. I lurched to the window and tried to peek over the sill without giving any one a clear shot.
Nothing.
I crawled back into bed, shaking. It was very, very dark. I was very, very tired. And that damn peacock, who was sitting on the spot of roof above my bed, let out their characteristic "HEEEEYYYYYYYOOOUUUUUUUUUUU!" Well. I knew it wasn't a serial killer then. What sort of idiot serial killer would sit above the scene of the crime and call out to all and sundry? At 90 decibels, no less.
I charged out into the hall, only to join forces with my sister charging up from the other end. We rounded the corner in tandem, and burst out the front door. (It was this bang, interestingly enough, that woke up my parents. I think that was the first positive proof that my dad was a master of selective deafness.)
The collective glare aimed at that peacock should have roasted him on the spot. He remained unimpressed. After all. He was on the roof. And more beautiful than the entire 3am crowd to boot. Rocks, guava, sticks- they all had no effect. It would have helped if our aim wasn't atrocious.
Mom finally solved the problem with the high pressure garden hose. The bird decided to sulk in the back yard, and was collected by a little man in a white golf cart later. I heard that 5 total got out. But it wasn't until Ben got involved that they all disappeared...
~
Just to let everyone know, I really don't like peacocks. They truly are beautiful. They are also selfish, greedy, and very, very noisy. There's a cultural park near my parents house, and one week the peacocks started to escape.
Now, I worked at said park in the afternoons. My summer/after school job. Possibly the most visual, in-your-face job I've ever had~ I sold coconuts with straws out of a canoe. My muumuu was white, royal blue, and hot pink. I wore a coconut hat on my head. WITH coconut leaf accouterments shaped like birds sticking up. And flowers.
The best part about it was the canoe was fiberglass painted to look like plastic wood, and the lagoon was only three feet deep. Got the image now?
At any rate, there were free range chickens already there. Then someone got the idea to introduce free range peacocks. They very carefully clipped their wings to keep them in the park, and promptly forgot that the feathers grow back.
One day - or night. Or morning. I don't really know and don't care to experience it again - an unholy shriek yanked me out of bed by the ear and sprawled me on the floor. Obviously a serial killer had decided to eat someone alive outside my bedroom window. I lurched to the window and tried to peek over the sill without giving any one a clear shot.
Nothing.
I crawled back into bed, shaking. It was very, very dark. I was very, very tired. And that damn peacock, who was sitting on the spot of roof above my bed, let out their characteristic "HEEEEYYYYYYYOOOUUUUUUUUUUU!" Well. I knew it wasn't a serial killer then. What sort of idiot serial killer would sit above the scene of the crime and call out to all and sundry? At 90 decibels, no less.
I charged out into the hall, only to join forces with my sister charging up from the other end. We rounded the corner in tandem, and burst out the front door. (It was this bang, interestingly enough, that woke up my parents. I think that was the first positive proof that my dad was a master of selective deafness.)
The collective glare aimed at that peacock should have roasted him on the spot. He remained unimpressed. After all. He was on the roof. And more beautiful than the entire 3am crowd to boot. Rocks, guava, sticks- they all had no effect. It would have helped if our aim wasn't atrocious.
Mom finally solved the problem with the high pressure garden hose. The bird decided to sulk in the back yard, and was collected by a little man in a white golf cart later. I heard that 5 total got out. But it wasn't until Ben got involved that they all disappeared...
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Waning Sickle Moon
I am beyond emo today. The only thing I came close to writing was a ghastly poem about darkness~ all fine and dandy, but NOT something I'll let escape Pandora's Box. That sucker and all its ilk will remain stuffed under the bed until the appropriate cremation rites are held.
I will say that I am enormously glad to be doing the thirty days. Since I can actually get on and force myself to write even a tiny paragraph in the middle of divorcing, moving, and preparing for my new position at work, I will never accept another excuse from myself again. Thanks, Marrow.
~
Off the shore near my house stands a small island. Well, I say stands, but its really more of an insouciant lounging. I'm sure it has a long name with too many vowels, but we all call it Goat Island. Even though there are no goats. I don't think it looks like a goat either. More like a ketchup blob shape, if you ask me. You can walk out to it across the reef when the tide is getting very low. Full moon or new; that's the best.
I like to take a stick with me. It helps to have three legs instead of two. The waves have a harder time tugging or pushing when you're tripodal. And it helps you stay out of the holes. Some of them are inhabited, after all. I majestically ignore the hoi polloi kicking past on their boogie boards. Sure enough, they hit a riff of current and swirl a merry dance. They'll have swum in the tiny harbor and returned by the time my plodding takes me to where I want to go.
Besides, there are always those unpredictable events. You don't want to arrive too fast. Like the time the local boy scouts waded out to picnic, and was surprised by a group of nudist sunbathers on the backside. That was before it was a bird sanctuary, and there was a lot of running amok in the bushes. I'm told you could hear the shrieks from the shore, though neither side owned up to them. I wonder if everyone ever found their clothes. Or their sandwiches.
But once you reach the tiny, goaty beach and turn around, it's like standing on the moon looking at the earth. The main land (if you can call another island that!) stretches out on each side. A green horizon with lacy ecru edges. It's best at five am, before company comes~ The rising sun stretches your shadow, reaching across the waves to the sand. And you sing the air in gold and peaches to the heartbeat of the surf.
I will say that I am enormously glad to be doing the thirty days. Since I can actually get on and force myself to write even a tiny paragraph in the middle of divorcing, moving, and preparing for my new position at work, I will never accept another excuse from myself again. Thanks, Marrow.
~
Off the shore near my house stands a small island. Well, I say stands, but its really more of an insouciant lounging. I'm sure it has a long name with too many vowels, but we all call it Goat Island. Even though there are no goats. I don't think it looks like a goat either. More like a ketchup blob shape, if you ask me. You can walk out to it across the reef when the tide is getting very low. Full moon or new; that's the best.
I like to take a stick with me. It helps to have three legs instead of two. The waves have a harder time tugging or pushing when you're tripodal. And it helps you stay out of the holes. Some of them are inhabited, after all. I majestically ignore the hoi polloi kicking past on their boogie boards. Sure enough, they hit a riff of current and swirl a merry dance. They'll have swum in the tiny harbor and returned by the time my plodding takes me to where I want to go.
Besides, there are always those unpredictable events. You don't want to arrive too fast. Like the time the local boy scouts waded out to picnic, and was surprised by a group of nudist sunbathers on the backside. That was before it was a bird sanctuary, and there was a lot of running amok in the bushes. I'm told you could hear the shrieks from the shore, though neither side owned up to them. I wonder if everyone ever found their clothes. Or their sandwiches.
But once you reach the tiny, goaty beach and turn around, it's like standing on the moon looking at the earth. The main land (if you can call another island that!) stretches out on each side. A green horizon with lacy ecru edges. It's best at five am, before company comes~ The rising sun stretches your shadow, reaching across the waves to the sand. And you sing the air in gold and peaches to the heartbeat of the surf.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Instant Headache
One hundred and nine degrees outside, followed by air conditioning inside. The relief is tangible and encourages the Couch Flop. Except once you land you discover once again that you really don't want anything touching you at all. This is the only moment you understand the attraction of a bed of nails. You willingly take cold showers five times a day. You drink water like a fish. But after all, the heat and the glare and the sweat culminate in a gorgeous headache. It's behind the right eye and playing the drum chant for your volcanic sacrifice. Checking the weather report tells you that it will be one hundred and twelve tomorrow. Perfect the Zen moment, and contemplate the coming August.
Friday, June 13, 2008
My brain's imploded, and I don't want to write anything. I am very, very tired of contemplating my navel. Getting out of the habit of hating myself is exhausting, and I'm about ready to throw in the towel for tonight. The stupidest thing is, I had a great night. I had an awesome day of overtime, my next paycheck will be modestly extra, I went out and had fabulous sushi with a friend, and I don't know if I'm happy or despise my existence.
It's a good thing that I already know that I'm broken, or I'd be even more disturbed.
~
When you fire pottery on the beach, you have to remember a few things. Such as the color that driftwood paints the flames, or that large fire pits in the sand do better with a bit of a chimney dug for draft. Don't roast marshmallows if you're adding chemicals. Seaweed effects are not worth the smell. You need a huge amount of wood if you want to melt beach glass on the bisque, and don't place the pit between the surfers and their cars. But most importantly, you might want to call the Fire Department before you start. They get cranky if they only find out by the smoke.
It's a good thing that I already know that I'm broken, or I'd be even more disturbed.
~
When you fire pottery on the beach, you have to remember a few things. Such as the color that driftwood paints the flames, or that large fire pits in the sand do better with a bit of a chimney dug for draft. Don't roast marshmallows if you're adding chemicals. Seaweed effects are not worth the smell. You need a huge amount of wood if you want to melt beach glass on the bisque, and don't place the pit between the surfers and their cars. But most importantly, you might want to call the Fire Department before you start. They get cranky if they only find out by the smoke.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Shopping with Encounters
You know, I feel rather empowered to realize that I'm contributing the the havoc of DNA.Styx's computing day...
I have also been called in to cover a friend's shift at work both Friday and Sunday. Yay. Dang 60 hour week!
~
I was attacked today in the grocery store. It was right between the green peppers and the Italian squash. I wish it hadn't happened; now my memory twinges at the sight of them and I don't eat enough veggies as it is. I had one of those silly little baskets and almost dropped it. If you carry a little basket, you're not as likely to put everything in the cart when you're hungry, right? So the only things to roll across the floor would've been the grapes.
I should have clocked him with it. Come to think of it, it wouldn't have been very satisfying with just grapes. This is when you think of a comeback- four hours after it would have done any good. We were near the potatoes. Ten pounds would have been just fine. I hadn't even heard him coming up behind me, and by the time my back stiffened in protest it was too late.
Light quick hands, brushing past my hips to clasp around my waist. He must have towered behind me. At least, by the time he whispered in my ear I couldn't feel him against my shoulders. "Solitary shopping... and going back to an empty house?"
I looked down in my basket. Everyone was ignoring us save for the zucchini spectating, though we must have looked like lovers. He was right. I had gone for the smallest bag of seedless red. The sort left behind after being halved by little blue haired ladies with pursed dogs. Oh, and I had forgotten the bananas. Two of them. It's strange, but in those useless self defense classes they never tell you to buy double produce.
I turned to jamb the basket between us and run for the hills. Or at least the carrots. Come to think of it, there was someone with blue hair there right now. We could compare grapes. But his damn arms were a lot longer than mine, and it turned into a dance. Looking up, I discovered that I knew him.
"What are you doing here?" Oh dear. And hissing is just so mature. I thought I left this creep in high school, but one glance and I've regressed to preteen behavior. I gave the basket an extra push. Abruptly. How rewarding to hear the little puff of air. In the face of his nonchalance, as well.
His eyes flicked to my left hand, and back to my face. "Divorced?" His little smirk spoke volumes. It always had. If only it was external, I could have him arrested for assault. He did let go and step back. It felt more like an attack. One more raked gaze and he turned to go. "I am so sorry to hear about it." The set of his shoulders said he'd see me home.
Bastard. I didn't even have to go to a reunion to hate his guts again. My good old pal, Mr. Loneliness.
I have also been called in to cover a friend's shift at work both Friday and Sunday. Yay. Dang 60 hour week!
~
I was attacked today in the grocery store. It was right between the green peppers and the Italian squash. I wish it hadn't happened; now my memory twinges at the sight of them and I don't eat enough veggies as it is. I had one of those silly little baskets and almost dropped it. If you carry a little basket, you're not as likely to put everything in the cart when you're hungry, right? So the only things to roll across the floor would've been the grapes.
I should have clocked him with it. Come to think of it, it wouldn't have been very satisfying with just grapes. This is when you think of a comeback- four hours after it would have done any good. We were near the potatoes. Ten pounds would have been just fine. I hadn't even heard him coming up behind me, and by the time my back stiffened in protest it was too late.
Light quick hands, brushing past my hips to clasp around my waist. He must have towered behind me. At least, by the time he whispered in my ear I couldn't feel him against my shoulders. "Solitary shopping... and going back to an empty house?"
I looked down in my basket. Everyone was ignoring us save for the zucchini spectating, though we must have looked like lovers. He was right. I had gone for the smallest bag of seedless red. The sort left behind after being halved by little blue haired ladies with pursed dogs. Oh, and I had forgotten the bananas. Two of them. It's strange, but in those useless self defense classes they never tell you to buy double produce.
I turned to jamb the basket between us and run for the hills. Or at least the carrots. Come to think of it, there was someone with blue hair there right now. We could compare grapes. But his damn arms were a lot longer than mine, and it turned into a dance. Looking up, I discovered that I knew him.
"What are you doing here?" Oh dear. And hissing is just so mature. I thought I left this creep in high school, but one glance and I've regressed to preteen behavior. I gave the basket an extra push. Abruptly. How rewarding to hear the little puff of air. In the face of his nonchalance, as well.
His eyes flicked to my left hand, and back to my face. "Divorced?" His little smirk spoke volumes. It always had. If only it was external, I could have him arrested for assault. He did let go and step back. It felt more like an attack. One more raked gaze and he turned to go. "I am so sorry to hear about it." The set of his shoulders said he'd see me home.
Bastard. I didn't even have to go to a reunion to hate his guts again. My good old pal, Mr. Loneliness.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Interstitial lingo with Chickens in Abeyance
I'm going to try this again from a more cohesive vein of thought. Then maybe I can bash them together and make it all right.
~
Scanned
I didn't put the lid down.
My sketch on tissue, squashed by hand,
fluttered its protest at the greenish light.
I know it's just the fan, but I can almost
hear screams. It's scanned.
I lift my palm, and it comes with it. Stuck
and seemingly whole. Or maybe holey.
My joy in it seems burnt away. Happiness
in ashes; still in the air but disappearing at a touch.
I've been scanned too. My recent flight arrested
for a bath of light. Or magnets, or X-rays.
Whatever they used to comb me through.
My luggage as well. Zapped at every juncture
conveyed by rayed belt in the bowels of the gates.
It would be nice to say I read the In Flight mag,
but the truth is I scanned it in ennui.
I hate the sound of it. The blips and beeps
paired with lights of red and green
kissing my very sustenance in
the grocery line. I have no fear of photos,
but this slow pixillation has burnt me to a disk.
Somehow I know the glass plate calls to lay
my cheek on its bed. I might have already;
in static dreaming on the interstitial web.
~
Scanned
I didn't put the lid down.
My sketch on tissue, squashed by hand,
fluttered its protest at the greenish light.
I know it's just the fan, but I can almost
hear screams. It's scanned.
I lift my palm, and it comes with it. Stuck
and seemingly whole. Or maybe holey.
My joy in it seems burnt away. Happiness
in ashes; still in the air but disappearing at a touch.
I've been scanned too. My recent flight arrested
for a bath of light. Or magnets, or X-rays.
Whatever they used to comb me through.
My luggage as well. Zapped at every juncture
conveyed by rayed belt in the bowels of the gates.
It would be nice to say I read the In Flight mag,
but the truth is I scanned it in ennui.
I hate the sound of it. The blips and beeps
paired with lights of red and green
kissing my very sustenance in
the grocery line. I have no fear of photos,
but this slow pixillation has burnt me to a disk.
Somehow I know the glass plate calls to lay
my cheek on its bed. I might have already;
in static dreaming on the interstitial web.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
From Prelude to Interlude~
I have got to stop writing these things in the middle of the night. I've been frittering my time posting, reading manga, and continuing my very long, drawn out move. It's almost midnight again, and if I try to cover all the events leading up to Ben and the Rooster in a Towel, I'm never going to sleep. Not to mention that my self esteem falls asleep and I have to mentally stave off the zone of freakiness.
~
Scanned
I hate the buzzing hum crawling over my ears. The corner of my eye catches the slow flash of the tube towed past my page, gingerly committed to exposure. It's a bug zapper. Hatred crackles over my cringing sketch, because the box wants more than just a copy. I'm scanned. This word; this thing; this cultural virus infiltrated every part of my life. My groceries pass over the unblinking eye, and my reading is caught up to its pace. It might be love, turned to something strange. After all, I was delighted when it gobbled up my pictures. I didn't notice that all it gave back was hard plastic; meaningless without returning to its ilk. It embraces me at every airport. Closer than a lover, it sees me off at every gate and checks my luggage too.
Perhaps I should give in, lay my cold cheek on the hot glass and let go. I may have already and only think that I am not captured; static.
~
Scanned
I hate the buzzing hum crawling over my ears. The corner of my eye catches the slow flash of the tube towed past my page, gingerly committed to exposure. It's a bug zapper. Hatred crackles over my cringing sketch, because the box wants more than just a copy. I'm scanned. This word; this thing; this cultural virus infiltrated every part of my life. My groceries pass over the unblinking eye, and my reading is caught up to its pace. It might be love, turned to something strange. After all, I was delighted when it gobbled up my pictures. I didn't notice that all it gave back was hard plastic; meaningless without returning to its ilk. It embraces me at every airport. Closer than a lover, it sees me off at every gate and checks my luggage too.
Perhaps I should give in, lay my cold cheek on the hot glass and let go. I may have already and only think that I am not captured; static.
The Chicken Wars; a Prelude.
The town I grew up in has an abundance of chickens. I don't remember seeing much when I was really small- I have a vague recollection of wider spaces and the occasional cardinal, but no chickens. And I knew chickens. Every time I went to my aunt's house, they watched me with beaded jet eyes and clucked.
I'd always end up edging along the flower bed. Right into their trap, where the broody hen would burst out in a firework of ruffled feathers and I'd run shrieking to the porch. So where were all these monsters coming from? It made me deeply uneasy to see more and more under the hedges.
My mother was beginning to act strangely too. She usually watered her plants first thing in the morning, and we'd wave on the way to the school bus, breakfast in mouth. Then one morning I sat to put on my shoes, and a banshee screamed past. "No! NOOOOO! Stop, you idjit chickens! HAH! Take that!"
I crept past the door jamb. She was still going strong. With mighty swings she scattered hens and chicks all over the yard. Since they had done the same to the chippings in the flower beds looking for bugs, things were looking a bit untidy. My eyes glazed over as I recognized the weapon at hand- an industrial strength plunger.
Across the street, an audience was gathering. Classmates all; eyes bugged out and edging backward to the haven of the bus stop. Really, I asked myself. School could get along without me today, surely? And Ben, who started all this, would probably be cutting too. I could go along and show him my appreciation.
I'd always end up edging along the flower bed. Right into their trap, where the broody hen would burst out in a firework of ruffled feathers and I'd run shrieking to the porch. So where were all these monsters coming from? It made me deeply uneasy to see more and more under the hedges.
My mother was beginning to act strangely too. She usually watered her plants first thing in the morning, and we'd wave on the way to the school bus, breakfast in mouth. Then one morning I sat to put on my shoes, and a banshee screamed past. "No! NOOOOO! Stop, you idjit chickens! HAH! Take that!"
I crept past the door jamb. She was still going strong. With mighty swings she scattered hens and chicks all over the yard. Since they had done the same to the chippings in the flower beds looking for bugs, things were looking a bit untidy. My eyes glazed over as I recognized the weapon at hand- an industrial strength plunger.
Across the street, an audience was gathering. Classmates all; eyes bugged out and edging backward to the haven of the bus stop. Really, I asked myself. School could get along without me today, surely? And Ben, who started all this, would probably be cutting too. I could go along and show him my appreciation.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
It's a Push Up.
I ran across a friend that I hadn't seen in a while. A long while; she had suddenly become nine months pregnant. I blinked twice and politely inquired about gender, and her eyes raked me up and down. She finally blurted, "Hey, you're looking really good! You've lost weight lately!"
I wanted to blink again, but I'd already done that. "Um...No." Perhaps this was wishful thinking on her part. The kind of thoughts that occur in the end of the third trimester are entertaining, but transient. Thankfully. She hurdled the conversational hiccup with yoga, future clothing sizes, and food. I had forgotten how nice it was to talk to her, and the topics reminded me of why she might think I was svelte. I decided to enlighten her: "Push ups."
"What? I HATE those! Not that I can do them now. I guess No Pain No Gain!"
"No, No. It's a push up." Bra, that is.
My sister insisted that I get one. Personally, I don't see much point. It's just a more advanced way to stuff tissue, and feels less strange than those silicone things. It's awkward. It magnifies any jello movements you're prone to, and I have not the foggiest idea where celebrities manage to tuck their nipples. But you can't deny that adding length to the bust line relegates the waist to a much less significant proportion. I'm just glad not to be an Ionic pillar. I'd hate to widen my middle to appear straight.
Of course, karma being what it is, the topic comes up at work. We stripped away all small talk and bared words like elastic, cup, seamless, and paisley. I felt really, really bad for John. He's the remaining bastion of testosterone in a women's army of clerks. He left strategically for the bathroom- it's the only place in the building that is his solitary kingdom. I guess he felt a little overwhelmed by the underwire. Or maybe it was the anecdote about the kid named Lucky who had a last name of Johnson. After much discussion, we decided that Lucky was limited in profession to gangster or basketball star. I muttered under my breath, "At least John's last name isn't Thomas."
"No," Joan was very definite. "It's Rodrick."
I threw the thing away, ending my upholstered experience. I guess I'm morally apposed to discomfort and false advertising. Besides, my friend of nine months had leaned close to ask if it had lace. I'd rather go back to yoga. But I got a wonderful idea for a style to re-trend:
The codpiece.
I wanted to blink again, but I'd already done that. "Um...No." Perhaps this was wishful thinking on her part. The kind of thoughts that occur in the end of the third trimester are entertaining, but transient. Thankfully. She hurdled the conversational hiccup with yoga, future clothing sizes, and food. I had forgotten how nice it was to talk to her, and the topics reminded me of why she might think I was svelte. I decided to enlighten her: "Push ups."
"What? I HATE those! Not that I can do them now. I guess No Pain No Gain!"
"No, No. It's a push up." Bra, that is.
My sister insisted that I get one. Personally, I don't see much point. It's just a more advanced way to stuff tissue, and feels less strange than those silicone things. It's awkward. It magnifies any jello movements you're prone to, and I have not the foggiest idea where celebrities manage to tuck their nipples. But you can't deny that adding length to the bust line relegates the waist to a much less significant proportion. I'm just glad not to be an Ionic pillar. I'd hate to widen my middle to appear straight.
Of course, karma being what it is, the topic comes up at work. We stripped away all small talk and bared words like elastic, cup, seamless, and paisley. I felt really, really bad for John. He's the remaining bastion of testosterone in a women's army of clerks. He left strategically for the bathroom- it's the only place in the building that is his solitary kingdom. I guess he felt a little overwhelmed by the underwire. Or maybe it was the anecdote about the kid named Lucky who had a last name of Johnson. After much discussion, we decided that Lucky was limited in profession to gangster or basketball star. I muttered under my breath, "At least John's last name isn't Thomas."
"No," Joan was very definite. "It's Rodrick."
I threw the thing away, ending my upholstered experience. I guess I'm morally apposed to discomfort and false advertising. Besides, my friend of nine months had leaned close to ask if it had lace. I'd rather go back to yoga. But I got a wonderful idea for a style to re-trend:
The codpiece.
It starts; flee in terror or watch in wary reservation.
I have thought starting a blog before. That's it. Just thought. Then I'd go merrily on my way, and the world never knew how narrowly it avoided another bit of flotsam on its intellectual shores.
So why am I now tossing this wrack on the beach? I'd like to say Marrow made me do it. Marrow has started this writing challenge to do something creative 30 days in a row, and pointed out the accessibility (and accountability) of blogging it. But that would be just a tad unfair- I'm sure he'd like to remain out of the "It's all YOUR fault!" loop.
I am fully responsible for making myself do this. Please ignore the terrified whimpers...
So why am I now tossing this wrack on the beach? I'd like to say Marrow made me do it. Marrow has started this writing challenge to do something creative 30 days in a row, and pointed out the accessibility (and accountability) of blogging it. But that would be just a tad unfair- I'm sure he'd like to remain out of the "It's all YOUR fault!" loop.
I am fully responsible for making myself do this. Please ignore the terrified whimpers...
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