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.
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