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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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..."

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...