Somewhat Revived

I'm baaaaaaack. Eladnarra decided to revisit her 30 days, and it got me excited to work on it again too. I'm not much for regular blogging, but this sort of wandering hodgepodge of creative ideas appeals to me. So, it's time to start again~

I think I'm going to just free associate today to get going.

there's a sort of vauge irritation to waiting on your plans for someone to make up their mind. There's a road trip in the offing, and the responses are more of the, I dunno, wadda u wanna do? flavor. I don't do well with those. If I want to do nothing, I'll do nothing. If I want to do something, I want to get doing it! So I'm ready to hit the ground running~ Running, sunning, funning...

the weather's been horrifically warm for spring. That means that july will be simply gruesome. Like those stulifying days in Nanakuli, when the air was still, wet, and like a velvet blanket pressing you into the chair. We'd lie on the masonite board floor and suck up its coolness. Or at least its lack of insulating qualities. Hair spread out in an anemone on the wood around us. back of the neck releasing the heat and feeling a little dizzy and totally somulent. Shorts and light tees never helped. the velvet air just pressed heavier in their light folds.

On better days we'd go out and play in the fields. Soy beans. Cotton. Pumpkin. Illima. Pikake. and best of all, asparagus. Little lacy patches of asparagus all around the yard. all of them tender young shoots. Like a green easter egg hunt. We'd cart bags full of tiny spears back to the kitchen that they'd boil up. and sneak edamame while it was cooking. much less traumatic than the pig carcass in the back of the station wagon...

Chibiland

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.