At some point she began talking to the walls.
Really, she said, she was speaking to the former residents of her house, whose shadow-selves had been imprinted thereupon almost like a mural only she could see.
An animated, techni-color mural.
We’re never sure if we should humor her, or try to coax her awareness back to the here and now. The truth is, it’s harder for us than it is for her, because she doesn’t register the devastation on our faces when she fails to recognize us.
“Why aren’t you in school, sweetie?” she asks.
“I’m thirty,” I remind her.
Random things about today:
Leftover birthday cake for breakfast, a mug of steaming coffee to cut the sweetness and wake my brain cells.
When you’re a freelancer weekends are arbitrary, anyway.
I read and write and nap and watch bad television and cuddle dogs.
“Are you hungry?” my husband asks.
What he really means is, “I’m hungry, but I don’t want to make anything so I’ll just sit and starve until you can be coaxed into the kitchen.”
“I’ll make an omelet if you let me watch the end of this movie.”
“Use lots of cheese.”
Vintage Typewriter | Credit: MorgueFile.com | Click to embiggen
I’m working on a piece of writing – it’s only fanfic, but I have readers who are demanding new chapters, and it’s good for playing with structure and dialogue – that is going to a very dark place.
I realized I’m afraid of it on two levels.
I’m afraid of letting my brain dwell in that darkness for the time it will take to finish the piece.
I’m also afraid I’m not skilled enough to pull off what I keep envisioning.
I only know I have to try.
Writing is so much harder than improv.
I remember when the opposite was true.
Today’s projected high is only 94, which is cool for early September in Texas. Break out the parkas. At least it’s not terribly humid.
Still, the softer light of waning summer makes 94 feel less intense at this time of year than it did a month or two ago. Autumn here isn’t the cool, crisp experience it is in New Jersey or Colorado, or even northern California. It’s more of a gentle glide from brutally hot, through comfortably warm, to kinda-sorta sweater weather.
The leaves still fall. The light still changes.
But until November we’ll be wrapped in golden warmth.
The collective noun for a group of sharks is not a school, but a shiver.
A shiver of sharks.
Take a moment to appreciate that awesome alliteration.
It’s like the lingual love-child of Edgar Allan Poe and Jacques Cousteau.
They had anchored their sailboat early that afternoon, planning to stay offshore overnight – just the two of them cradled by bent wood and the sea.
She was swimming off the port side when she felt, rather than saw, something approaching beneath the surface of the water.
Stay calm, she thought, swimming for the ladder.
Safely aboard, they watched the fins circling.
Image Copyright: cameris / 123RF Stock Photo
I learned the state capitals from a pencil case. It was deep cherry red, with the map of the United States outlined in raised white lines, two windows on the sides, and wheels to adjust the text appearing within. Change the capital, and the state would flip, and vice versa.
I remember reading the combinations: Albany, New York; Dover, Delaware.
(My mother used to sing the song “What Did Della Ware?”)
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; Nashville, Tennessee; Pierre, South Dakota.
I found it very jarring when I moved to South Dakota to be with Fuzzy, and learned the locals pronounce it “Peer.”
Prompt: Pencil Case / Source @SSMindSchool
I’ve never been very good at sleeping. I either feel like it’s so much wasted time, or I’m afraid of what my imagination will run on the movie screen of my mind, so I avoid it, or I’m so exhausted and cranky that I cannot get enough of it.
Last night, I took melatonin way too late. Today, I was a zombie.
But I was a zombie with incredibly vivid dreams, who woke to make dinner, spend time with my husband, and still get a blog post in under the wire.
Tonight? I’m hoping to be in bed by 1 AM.
We had leftover deli turkey, the kind with peppercorns and sundried tomatoes, and zucchini, mushrooms, and spinach that had to be used.
I found a recipe for frittata that used all those vegetables, and replaced the called-for bacon with the turkey.
It said to only use three cloves of garlic. I laughed.
I chopped, stirred, cracked, blended, and poured.
It’s in the oven now.
I’ve loved the concept of breakfast for dinner since I was a little girl. (To this day, I only go to IHOP at night, but only ever order breakfast foods.)
Comment if you want the recipe…
I asked the universe (and my mother) to send me a storm for my birthday. I woke yesterday to thunder, lightning, and torrential rain, which subsided into a steady, soaking rain around noon, and lingered throughout the day.
I love it when nature cooperates with my desires.
Turning forty-four was easy and fun, filled with laughter, good friends, good food, and special gifts: goodies from Lush and a bracelet from Fuzzy, flowers and plants from two of my favorite people, and a non-fiction book from my aunt that I’d never have chosen, but will enjoy.
Happy Birthday to Me, indeed.
In preparation for the annual summer lightening of my hair color, I’m allowed to use hot water to wash my hair again (my usual technicolored dyes require tepid-water washing) and I’m also once again able to use mint shampoo (mint strips moisture and color).
My current minty fresh hair products of choice? Organix Mint and Tea Tree Oil, which come in curvy green bottles, and smell almost exactly like Girl Scout Cookies…Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies, to be specific.
The Dove body-wash I’m currently using, is made with pomegranate but smells like raspberry Zingers.
Combine them? I’m a walking dessert.