After church, and after our weekly post-church lunch at Panera, I went into one of my favorite clothing stores with the intention of buying a belt – just a belt – and then leaving.

I didn’t buy a belt.

I did buy a tangerine and raspberry gypsy skirt, and a top to go with it, three t-shirts (tangerine, lime, black), and two bras (one is strapless, the other boring white, but oh, so comfy).

Fruit colors seem to be my thing this year: tangerine, lime, raspberry, cherry, plum, lemon, strawberry – or maybe it’s not fruit that I’m patterning my wardrobe after, but sorbet – icy cold, slightly sweet, and always refreshing.

I’m trying to get away from wearing black so often.
I’m trying to wear skirts more.
I’m falling in love with my cleavage.

Life is FUN.

I say… And you think… ?

1. Grandma:: Esther
2. Pet:: Zorro
3. Desolate:: Mojave Desert
4. Backspace:: Delete
5. Common ground:: compromise
6. Storm:: front
7. Dark:: ages
8. Water bottle:: necessity
9. Training:: bra
10. Dot coms:: domain slut (me)

Like this meme? Play along here.

It has been a day of words and books and sleep and more words. I feel as though my relationship with language has been rekindled, my love of writing renewed.

Of course, the day began with the annoyance of finding that the copiers at Kinkos were all being uncooperative – half needed service, most had no paper, and the remaining two were sporting apparently-new software that made it impossible to make landscape copies of lettersized paper, instead of portrait copies. The very helpful too-hovery (is that a word? It is now) Kinko’s Dude tried to solve the problem, but failed to really listen, though at least he found the paper I needed.

Despite that it’s been a good day. A contest entry submitted another piece finished, headway on something bigger than it was but not yet planned enough to describe. . . projects galore and so much energy, I feel like I’m in a disco lit by a thousand suns, all twinkling to the sound of MY inner beat.

This is my brain.
This is my brain, high on LIFE.

This morning when I opened the front door, there was an orange butterfly resting on the sun-warmed glass of the storm door, as if waiting to greet me, and usher me into the day.

I thought about snapping its picture, but when I went to get the camera, and then returned, it had disappeared. I imagine it found a flower, then spiralled in front of a dogs nose, teasing, but remaining out of reach, and then possibly alighting in a small child’s hair.

It made me remember our trip to see the butterfly exhibit several weeks ago – outside, it was cold and windy. Inside it was hot, and rainforest-humid, and the two-story room was filled with plants and streams and free-flying butterflies.

This one (actually a moth) was resting on a leaf, just around the final turn, just above my eye-level. Fuzzy snapped the picture. In real life, it had a wingspan of five or six inches.

Click picture for larger image.

…and I’m not afraid to use it.

Earlier today I sliced vine-ripened tomatoes into a bowl, and covered them in a blend of olive oil, red wine vinegar, basil, oregano, salt and pepper. This tomato salad was a staple of my childhood, during summers spent with my grandparents in New Jersey, and would be served along side grilled hamburgers, corn on the cob and baked potatoes done on the grill, either white or sweet. Sometimes, there would be more conventional salads as well, the kind that include lettuce, but just as often there wouldn’t be.

I’ve just emailed a friend stating that I have these tomatoes and no idea what to put with them, as I forgot to defrost the salmon I’ve meant to cook for a week now, but as I don’t have a grill, hamburgers aren’t really an option (I don’t like making them on the stove – too greasy.)

Then, inspiration struck! I have a cast-iron skillet (purchased mainly so I can make cornbread) and there have to be some things that are just better cooked in such a pan. A second burst of inspiration: steak au poivre, which I never got enough of in France.

Of course we have no food in the house (well, we have beer, yogurt, apples, and the tomatoes I mentioned) so this will require a trip to the store, but…mmmm…sizzling steak au poivre, baked potatoes, and marinated tomatoes. Bliss on a plate!

Alice sighed wearily. `I think you might do something better with the time,’ she said, `than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.’

`Ah! that accounts for it,’ said the Hatter. `He won’t stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!’
— Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Rebelbelle at Open Diary commented on a bumper sticker about killing time, and mused about why anyone would wish to do such a thing, and I had to smile, both because I agree so strongly with the sentiment, and because it reminded me of Alice’s remarks at a famous tea party.

We seem to treat Time as our adversary, we fight it, race against it, beat it, and kill it – instead of embracing it. It takes a minute to play a certain Waltz, about ten to boil water, twenty to bake a cornbread in a cast-iron skillet (not including prep-time), an hour to wash a load of laundry, a day for paint to dry, and 70-90 years to experience a life.

Why not embrace time. In that minute, lose yourself in the music. While waiting for the kettle to boil or the coffee to brew, spend a moment playing with your dog, or smooching your significant other. While the laundry is spinning around in circles, take a walk, or read a book, but don’t think of any of these things as killing time, but celebrating it.

We are given a collection of moments, all strung together to form a somewhat coherent whole. Shouldn’t we attempt to find the treasures in every day things, in the small spaces of time while we’re waiting for other stuff to happen, rather than searching for a stretch of time that we perceive is long enough in which to accomplish something worthwhile?

An exercise from Write a Book Now!

The instructions, paraphrased:Take the three words assigned in an exercise, and write for five minutes. You can change the tenses, or forms of the words, but all three must be used. The first word must be used to start your piece. It must be fiction. It cannot be in first person.

UNEDITED WRITING EXERCISE: Words: fire, clock, certainty

Fire filled her dreams – images of flame and smoke doing little to mask the screaming of people desperately fleeing for their lives as the apartment building burned to the ground. In sleep, she raced down the stairs from the seventh floor, her little sister dragged along behind her like a ragdoll, until the final flight, when the smaller girl had tripped. She’d fallen too, but the pain of the impact in her dream woke her, and as she rubbed her knee, she stared at the clock, noting the time – three AM. She’d managed two and a half hours of sleep since the last nightmare. This time, though, she
did not go back to sleep, instead, lying in the darkness clutching the
notebook she’d insisted upon going back to their apartment to retrieve. It wasn’t the pain that caused her nightmares, nor the loss of her home and belongings, but the certainty that her little sister’s death was her fault.

Originally written 7 May 2005.

Note: it may technically be Friday, but fiscally, it’s still Thursday night.

Onesome: Are–Are you planning on heading out this Memorial Day? …or is it a ‘stay at home and chill’ kind of holiday for you?
We’d considered heading up to Fuzzy’s sister’s place in Iowa, to see everyone, but they’re leaving for Europe a week later, and the last thing they really need is MORE people. So we’re rescheduling. Most likely, we’ll go to the last weekend of Scarborough Faire.

Twosome: we– ….and who is “we” when you go traveling? Any preferences that you can state here in blogland ?
Generally, just me and Fuzzy. While I like meeting people at destinations, I don’t like having to stick to other people’s schedules. As for preferences, I detest road trips. Flying may be uncivilized, but it’s FAST. I wish we could bring the dogs with us more, at least on overnights, as I hate going to bed without them.

Threesome: there yet?– …and when you get there, what are you going to do? …or if you’re staying in, what’s on the menu? Are you cooking out or just opening a can of tuna?
I like picnics at the beach, but other than that? Find me a restaurant with table service, please. Or let me just cook at home, with my frou-frou professional-grade appliances. If we don’t go to Faire, we’ll probably putter around the house, do some gardening and see some movies.

This meme can be found here.

At first,
I thought it was a crumpled leaf,
Grey and still
Resting under the patio table,
Waiting for the next breath of wind
To carry it on its way.
But then the dog barked,
And her hind legs pawed at the ground
As if she was preparing for a chase,
(Which, I suppose, she was)
And her black nose was all a-quiver,
As she strained against the verbal leash called “Stay.”
A closer look revealed
That my ‘leaf’ was breathing,
And had glistening eyes.

Click for larger image

Marianne Moore said, “Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.”

I wonder if it works in reverse.

(Translation: This guy was hiding-in-plain-sight under my picnic table at about midnight last night/this morning.)

It has become an evening ritual to watch the gecko scaling the back wall of my house, and then go inside and enjoy a steaming mug of tea. This week I am drinking Tazo “Calm” in the evenings, and reliving the relaxation that chamomile affords. Last week I bought a sketch book, not to sketch in, but to write poetry in, because poetry is too organic for the keyboard, and seems to flow better when scribbled in ink on textured paper. I’m at a point, with writing, where I’m scaling a vertical wall, but unlike my friend the gecko, I don’t have sticky feet and pointy claws to keep me secure while I move upward. It hurts to write, it hurts not to write, and yet, I’m terrified by things I’m stirring up from the depths of the cauldron of my mind – half memory and half imagination.

I wonder if it is really failure that terrifies me, or if it is actually success that I fear.