MissMeliss: Escribition

Fuzzy is on a funky schedule of late-night and pre-dawn server upgrades, which he performs remotely from his office upstairs, but both our sleep patterns are extremely skewed, his because his schedule demands that he’s awake to do said upgrades, and mine because when he’s home and awake at odd hours, I sense the activity and the absence of his body in the bed, and cannot sleep deeply. The dogs are agitated as well, for they hear his chair rolling around above the bedroom, but their desire to curl up on the bed generally rules their world.

It’s not all bad, however, as I slept from midnight to just before four this morning, then woke to the low hum of the radio as Off the Shelf came on. I posted before that I sense the change in cadence between news and story, and that makes me listen more actively - such was the case tonight. (I keep the radio on when Fuzzy’s working, because otherwise I can hear the quiet murmur when he’s speaking on the phone, or the rolling of his chair drives me nuts).

The story, tonight, was classic science fiction, an H.G. Wells tale called Inside the Avu Observatory. I thought I was familiar with Wells’ work, but this story was new to me, and not really the kind of story I’d have chosen to listen to in the deepest darkest hour of the night, as it features a black dragon-like creature getting caught inside the dome of an observatory, and engaging in a blind battle with the human occupant of the darkened room.

Still, the combination of Well’s writing, and the gentle English voice of the reader made me smile into the fuzzy dimness of the bedroom, and I turned over to better hear the radio for the fifteen minutes or so that the show was on.

I’d have preferred to roll over and go back to sleep, as soon as it ended, but reality intruded. My bladder was awake. Taking care of it required that I turn on lights, and walk across the cold tile of the bathroom floor, and that combination of events has momentarily pushed sleep from my mind.

And so I’m sitting here in bed, with two sleeping doggies, and the faint sounds of Fuzzy still working upstairs, and I’m trying to decide if it’s worth getting up and attempting to write, or if I should steal the opportunity to sleep in the middle of the bed.

I think the latter option is winning.

Dear Zorro,

We all know that you’re the cutest boy-dog on the planet. You don’t have to prove it by pretending to look at the screen of my laptop, and you REALLY don’t need to prove it by using the backspace key as your personal chin-rest.

There are six dog beds and seventeen thousand pillows in various places in this house, not to mention the whole bottom half of the bed, and if it’s attention you require, rolling over on your back is much more likely to elicit the response we all know you really want: belly rubs.

Much love,

Me.

PS No, don’t eat the letter. Silly dog.

I wander from the computer to the kitchen, from the television to the bedroom, fluttering between them, but I never manage to settle into one place or one activity.

I open Word to do some writing, and the blank screen mocks me, taunting me like a French stereotype.

I contemplate making the stir-fry I’d promised Fuzzy a few days ago, and go so far as to take the meat out to defrost, but the kitchen is a mess, and I can’t summon the engery or motivation to do anything about it.

My hair feels dirty, and my skin feels too tight around my temples, and at the tips of my fingers and toes.

I want a bubblebath, but I don’t want to commit to the necessary time required for a good soak. I want to read, but nothing interests me.

I’m not hungry, but I’m craving…something. Something I can’t name. I’m not sure if it’s a flavor, a texture, a scent, a sound, an image, or a combination of some or all.

I feel blank, like clean paper, but with none of the associated possibilities.

I feel fractured, like a reflection from a broken mirror.

I want. I need.

I don’t know.

I’ve begun the arduous process of editing my 2003 NaNoWriMo project, Illusions of Motion. Here’s a very raw excerpt.

The problem with having an over-active imagination is that things stay in the back of your mind, lurking over your shoulder and waiting for the worst possible moment to make themselves known. The fall after my seventh birthday, one of the murky figures that took up residence in my brain was the Headless Horseman.

I don’t remember how it began that Tia and I would visit Aunt Goody on weekend afternoons. Possibly it had to do with the fact that we both missed distant grandparents. Equally possible was the fact that we both saw the spark of mischief and good humor beneath the old teacher’s crusty exterior.

In any case, it was on a Saturday shortly before Halloween that we both ended up in front of the old Goody house. It was a cozy little place, at the end of a road and surrounded by aspen and pine trees. I always thought of it as being a bit backwards, because the front door opened into the street level living room dining room and kitchen, and the bedrooms were below, nestled against the hillside. And truly, it probably wasn’t actually an old house, as much as it was decorated with old things, an eclectic collection of ornate wooden furniture.

Aunt Goody always had some kind of a project planned for Saturdays, though it’s only now that I’ve begun to wonder whether she expected us, or was just such a creative thinker that whipping up something for two small girls to do was nothing to her. On this Saturday, before the year’s first snow, with the bite of fall and the rustling of leaves filling the air, her plan was to make caramel apples and watch a movie.

And so we did. As the afternoon sunlight thinned into twilight, we sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa, munching candy-coated apples, and watching The Legend of Sleepy Hollow - I don’t remember which version, only that the horses were pretty, and, at seven, I couldn’t figure out how they made a man look headless.

We were having so much fun, that I never noticed how dark it was outside. Twilight had fully descended, and the moon was visible. Aunt Goody called my parents, and let them know I was on my way home, on my bike. Tia only lived two houses away, so I walked my bike that far, with her, then hopped on and began to ride.

Half a mile never seemed so long. Clouds kept moving in front of the moon, changing the light and making the shadows move around me, and the trees, which I’d always thought were pretty, suddenly seemed to close in. And…what was that sound? Was that the swish of a cape brushing against a tree branch?

My small hands gripped the handle-bars of my trusty red bike tight enough to turn my knuckles red, then white, and my feet slipped off the pedals more than once, as I tried to get out of the woods and onto the lit streets near our building before …. I didn’t know what.

I did know, however, that Rule Number One is never look back, and so I didn’t. I forced myself to hear music in my head (Shaun Cassidy’s “Teen Dream” is great biking music, by the way), and pedalled as fast as I could, not coasting down the hill, the way I had every other Saturday, and not stopping til I got to the brightly lit front door of Lyon’s Ice Cream, where I paused to catch my breath in the protectiive amber glow of the lion head sconces.

I sat there for about five minutes, still not daring to look behind me, just breathing. Ahead, I could see light in the corner of the front window of our apartment above the store. Across the street, I could see Russ the Librarian, locking up the library. He saw me, and waved, and I waved back. Then I continued down the block and around the corner, and home.

The edited, more interesting version will be posted in a day or two.

Last night in the shower, I learned that Venus “Divine” razors are sharper than even I ever imagined. I’m not sure how I did it - I was reaching up to the shelf where Fuzzy keeps relocating my razor, in preparation for the ritual of shaving my legs, and lost my grip. The contraption caught the side of the ring finger on my left hand, which started bleeding profusely, though there wasn’t any pain at first.

I yelled for Fuzzy, because I was wet and bleeding, and even if I hadn’t been, I can’t put a band-aid on with one hand. Except we’re out of band-aids. So we used gauze and tape and saran wrap and I finished my shower - and shaved my legs, thanks - then, cslmer, I made a smaller bandage out of tape and cotton.

Typing with a finger covered in cotton is more of a challenge than I thought, and when I forget and actually attempt to type correctly, it HURTS, but for a minor slicing, it’s not a big deal.

Though, I really do need to remember to go in for a tetanus shot soonish.

Apparently, the ice at the American Airlines Center in Dallas is pretty bad. I suspected this as soon as we sat down, last night, because we were close enough to see that the corners looked a bit slushy, and there was a dark spot near one of the mats, as if blood had frozen into the ice (it was probably more like cocoa, but, this is where my mind goes). Our suspicions were confirmed when, just before the opening music, the announcer informed us that some programs would be modified for the safety of the performers, due to the condition of the ice.

That aside, this years tour of Stars on Ice was every bit as good as tours I’ve seen in previous years, despite the notable absences of Kristi Yamaguchi and Scott Hamilton (who is dealing with brain tumors, this year).

They’ve revamped the cast a little. Partly, this is normal - it allows newer, younger skaters to be in the tour, and allows older skaters, many of whom have families now, to take time off. So now, instead of seeing Kurt and Ilia and Michael in every show, each is only performing in select cities. Dallas is on the Kurt Browning leg of the tour, which is fine, because he’s one of my favorite performers.

Stars on Ice follows a fairly structured format of a group number, performances by each soloist or pair, and another group number, in each act, and adds liitle bits of comedic diversion to cover costume changes and lighting changes. Each year’s show has a theme that ties everything together. This year, the theme was Imagination.

From the moment the lights came up on lavender and silver-clad skaters, all grouped around a central platform, to the last wave-goodbye at the end of act two, it was obvious that Christopher Dean is the principal choreographer for the show. The use of props - especially hats and umbrellas - is typical of his work, and the concentration on intricate footwork is one of his signatures as well.

The cast we saw included:

Sarah Hughes - who skated to Eva Cassidy’s version of “Over the Rainbow” - elegant as always, though her jumps were a little ‘off’. (I blame the ice, mainly.)

Alexei Yagudin - who did some Cirque de Soleil-type acrobatics suspended from a white sheet over the ice. He worked without a net, yes, but he was also extremely cautious. And eventually, he did skate, wonderfully, as always. He vamped it up for the audience, but I still think he comes across as cute, not hot.

For HOT, we had Steven Cousins. I’ve seen him skate before, but he never made much of an impression. Last night, that changed, and no, Fuzzy, not because he was shirtless for part of his performance.

Yuka Sato (who is alternating performances with Ekaterina Gordeeva, I think, as the latter did not skate in Dallas), skated to “Naughty Girl” in act one, and “Amazing Grace” in act two. In the first, her vamping was more adorable than sexy. In the second, she was breathtaking, ethereal, wonderful, classy. Did I say I missed seeing Kristi Yamaguchi? I take it back. It was wonderful to see Yuka Sato not in Kristi’s shadow.

The pairs skaters were all equally wonderful. Watching Ina and Zimmerman was like seeing old friends - they do amazing feats of lifting and he holds her up there for nearly infinite lengths of time, it seems.

Sale and Pelletier, recently engaged, skated with the intensity of young love. I really enjoyed their skating to “Who Wants to Live Forever” which spotlighted their yoga training. (Fuzzy liked it because ‘the music was from Highlander’).

Berezhnaya and Sikharulidze had some issues during their second-act performance (it looked like soft ice was tripping Elena), but their overall performance was everything you expect from Russian skaters, intensity, precision, style.

And then, there was Kurt Browning. I’d seen both his programs on television - he used them for the last Ice Wars competition, which surprised me, because they don’t seem like competitive programs - Leaky Pipes I & II. The premise of these two numbers is that Kurt is left home to fix a leaky pipe while his wife and son go out, but he’s distracted by the lure of his kid’s toy box. The performance then becomes Kurt playing with all these props - a cape, a slingshot, a knight’s sheild (with a hockey stick as a sword), impossibly tiny skates, a fire hat, a jumprope. The man JUMPS ROPE on ice. Both pieces are witty and engaging. The first is set to Jitterbug (the number cut from The Wizard of Oz), the second to SuperCaliFragilIsticExpiAliDocious, both as performed by Harry Connick, Jr. Perfect childlike music for a show themed IMAGINATION.

The two finales were both wonderful, with the first being a medley of music from The Who, and the scene being an amusement park. At first, all the skaters are on a roller coaster, and we watch them climb and then sail down, the first ‘hill’, then they break off into smaller groups, with the skaters not in the spotlight chugging around the edge of the ice. It ended with everyone (except Ina & Zimmerman) skating beneath red umbrellas, while rain fell - I&Z skated in the rain.

The act two finale was just as dramatic, with each skater coming out in silver and tinsel, and skating a bit alone, and then going back off-ice, and then returning, each time more people returning, until the full company was available. We’d been warned at the end of act two to listen to weather reports, which were piped over the loudspeaker during Intermission, and the hints provided paid off - for this act culminated in an indoor snowstorm falling on the skaters, as they waved goodbye.

It was a lovely show, as always, and when we left the arena, I was surprised to find it was after ten, because it felt like we were only there for half an hour.

It’s not particularly cold outside, but the wind has made itself felt all morning, making the slats in the vertical blinds rattle against each other. This bothers the dogs, as they are aware that beyond the blinds there is Outside, even if there’s no actual access to it from our bedroom.

I haven’t been Outside myself since I opened the bedroom door, and back door, for Cleo, around nine-thirty, and I’m wondering what surprises I’ll find when I go. Scattered leaves, for sure, probably even inside the kitchen, as that back door is still open.

Often, I find families of ladybugs seeking shelter on the cool blue tiles of my kitchen floor, on days like this. I’m never sure if I should slide them onto a sheet of paper, and return them to the great outdoors from whence they came, or if I should let them stay there, risking demise in the form of gallumphing puppyfeet.

Cleo, though she is technically an adolescent dog as a small breed who is almost five, will always be somewhat of a puppy, it seems. Zorro growls at her more and more often, as his epilepsy causes him to age pre-maturely. After all, he’s not quite eight. I think of him as the crotchety old grandfather of our family - give him food and a spot on a sun-warmed chair, and he’s happy as can be.

There was a great sliding sound from Outside a bit ago, and Cleo started barking at it (continuing when the actual sound had long since ceased. She’s very vocal). I’m almost certain that one of the deck chairs has blown off the deck and is upside down in the ivy, which may not seem like a big deal, but these are fairly solid, metal chairs, and not the type anyone would expect to see easy blown about.

I’m off to find something comfortable, yet presentable, for our evening out. Ice arenas are always chilly, yet because skating exhibitions are as much theatre as sports, everyone dresses a bit better than jeans and a sweater. I didn’t manage seats on the ice this year, but we’re in row 4, which isn’t bad at all. It’s close enough to see faces, to see FEET, and to hear the blades slicing through the ice.

While we’re gone, the dogs will likely curl up on opposing couches, and bark at the wind Outside.

As dogs do.