Night Falls

For a moment, the sky is a gasp of gorgeous, striated magenta, plum and lavender, a goodnight kiss before tenacious dark.

Perceived Warmth

Cold wind curls around unclad ankles, slithers up skirt to lick the backs of naked knees. Bravado and vanity notwithstanding, tiny scraps of white satin may have been an unwise choice.

The red would have been better.

The File

...kind of hush all over the world tonight/ All over the world...

.

My prowly ways are mitigated yet again by houseguests, and I retire earlier than the dinnertime coffee recommends as wise. Silence wakes me, loud, strong, keeps me awake, listening for something to cut through its depth.

I can hear numbers changing on my digital clock. The red glowing 5:45 is a lie. I haven't changed it back an hour, indeed have forgotten when it was I should have done so.

Audible is a rhythmic thrum of generator, distant, near, or perhaps the surge of power through lines just outside my icy window. Rise, peek out, touching chill glass. No snow.

Often a fresh blanket of deep damp muffles what few sounds occur on a snowy night. No. The sky is clear, the ground brittle.

The city holds its breath.


**********

I search for a cache of cards I remember owning, know I kept in THIS DRAWER, so I hunt, hopeful, fruitless, and find The File instead.

I it find buried... but carefully, tenderly, even, among things I no longer use. I had set up the desk, the drawer, thinking to use it for correspondence. My computer took over, then died. Of course, until I call upon My Hero to help retrieve things stored on the dead computer's hard drive, I can't get rid of it. The whole area becomes a wasteland, an abandoned washing machine on an empty lot in a dirty city.

I think of the book I am reading, how Kath appears where she wasn't supposed to appear, as he searches for something else.

I pull out The File, thumb through it. Stories I remember loving, in obsolete blue of the now-defunct mimeograph machine, one of them dedicated to me. Two old snapshots, greenish grey, the subject blurry and all but unrecognizable,(though inept with an F-stop, I attempted to prove a certain level of competance as a photographer- stil do, actually), dated 1982. A tiny typewritten note, signed.

I searched for The File early this summer, remember coming across it as I moved papers from one arena of my life- 'arena' here meaning 'room'- to another. I have far too many 'arenas,' and have yet to settle on a system of paper-keeping that satisfies me. I remember thinking as I touched The File, ach, I'll probably never need this, I ought to get rid of it. And so when I failed to find The File this summer, I thought I had perhaps disposed of it. Evidently, I did not, tucking it away instead, treasure to unearth when I searched for something else.

A quick scramble garners a few additions. I tuck them into The File, and replace it. I may one day decide to toss the whole thing, but honestly, I doubt it.

It will be left for the living to ponder.


(There's A Kind Of Hush; Herman's Hermits)

Supermodel? No.

...cat moves/ That so upset them/ Zippers and buttons/ Fun to frustrate them....

In my quest for the perfect 'fabulously interesting page,' I hesitate to post something substandard, unworthy to bump ~this post~ into the archives. I resign myself to not finding it, resolve to break through my uninspired perfectionism.

Warm honey sifts through my hair, cups my cheek. Nestling into sweetness, I am tempted to remove my top. This September-golden sun teases me today, as it crippled me last night.

Fairness would require that I be incapacitated only by impending ominous weather, but there is little in the universe that understands 'fair' as humans have defined it.

**************

I watch Victoria's Secret commercials that give the cachet of diamonds to women's lingere. Somewhat easier on the wallet. Possibly.

"Look at that, they're targeting the male buyer!'

"What? They've been doing that for two or three years now. Ever since the VS show during SuperBowl, they've had supermodels making legs and cleavage at us poor unsuspecting Mr. Sofaholics, with their wet lips and doe eyes, promising us that our women will look like them in that overpriced underwear, which they don't. Where've YOU been?"

Bristle, bristle. I KNOW I don't have supermodel legs. My ass, however, is world-class.

"Not paying attention to male-targeted advertising, I guess. Anyway, I've changed my mind. Now I DO want diamonds."

Nyyyyyaaaahhhh.

(I Know What Boys Like; The Waitresses)

Unseasonable Weather

March breeze blows through this December day, warm and wet and wild, like much-missed lover's kiss, taking with it vestiges of sun, leaving bonechill damp behind.

I protest and leave my ankles bare against the wind.

We venture out, grateful for gloves and BeachBaby's working heater.

The herrings pack the stores without benefit of sour cream to ease friction between unfriendly shoppers.

'Tis the season.

Altitude Factory

...I don't normally break into spontaneous dancing. - Martin Ewen

He tells me he's leaving his large duster.

"I only ever use it at Ren-nay-sance, anyway."

It sounds like a promise.

The children watch the video, then ask to watch it again immediately. I, mezmerized, agree, happy for the opportunity to stare, without risk of embarrassment.

---rewind---

They insist on leaving tonight, immediately after workshop. I'd rather they start fresh in the morning, but Izzy's got a point about traffic. They consent to tea and biscuits before they leave, and I give directions that (I hope) will cut twenty-five minutes from their trip, though they both seem easily as expert as Hilby at getting lost.

---rewind---

He shows us his trademark moves. I watch, unable to copy. My body is stiff from weather and more effort than I've expended since MotionFest. Though the stilts are light, I am less able than I'd hoped. Martin instructs me to smooth out my walk before I try any fancy stuff. I am surprised by how much control this takes. She watches, copies, modifies. I wonder if I'll be able to catch up.

---rewind---

Sun slinks across the porch; she blossoms from her sweater, revealing a top that clearly doesn't support the wearing of any bra.

---rewind---

Glittery branches embrace a streetlight, break murky velvet of rapacious fog. Once more into the mists, into the studio, to wrap ourselves with towels and tape, hoping for grace and agility. Wyatt Jaster is excited. The three children learn a fun little fancy thing that should reap a few laughs, if they can pull it off. It involves the two boys gently lowering Fuzzy to her knees and leaving her, in order to pick her up later. This presupposes that the well-meaning patronage will let the little girl sit on the ground without attempting to 'help.'

---rewind---

To combat the day's drear, I serve hot soup, bread, cheese. I make apologies for the peasanty meal, but the crowd of avid eaters seems well satisfied.

"You're a C cup!"

Yes, and?

"We're supposed to be the same size!"

Really. Are we?

"I went rooting through your underwear drawer, to steal a bra, and you're a C cup!"

Her indignation is palpable.

"I say I'm a B, which is a lie, because I'm really more like an A and a half."

Sorry for the inconvenience. (And a little surprised that she doesn't describe herself as an A-plus.)

---rewind---

Through unshuttered windows of the dance studio, grey mist streams in to wrap around us as we work, watching our reflections in silvergrey mirrors. The fitting process is awkward, hampered by lack of a stable stand. The windowsill works, but crowds our shoulders and we contort into disfiguring positions to remain balanced, which throws off the balance of the stilt. This is fine precision tuning, the likes of which I've never experienced on a pair of stilts. Or anything, for that matter.

---rewind---

"Honey, why does it make me crazy that Izzy calls me 'Sybil,' but it doesn’t bother me at all when Martin does it?"

"Because you think it sounds cute in the Kiwi’s accent."

"Yeah. I do."

---rewind---

December does not preclude top-down days. Izzy and I ride, searching for a particular sort of screw, with the top down all day long. In the long run, do self-routing screws make a difference in stilt quality? Only Izzy knows for sure. His standards of construction are incredibly high.

---rewind---

The gig, while not quite a clusterfuck, is annoying enough all around to be only very slightly fun. Still, I am grateful to it, for providing impetus for the Altitude Factory, which currently resides in my basement in form of lengthy chunks of hickory and assorted mysterious noises.

---rewind---

We wait for, and receive, a call. It is earlier than I expected. The boys are lost. Quelle suprise. They think they're in a bad neighborhood, but they can see St. Agnes, so I know they're safe. They'll be safer yet, in a bit.

I like being thought of as 'home.'

More Vivid

In a dream, I watch him work, until he looks up and notices me. He stops. The spell is broken, and we look away from one another, uncomfortable, until my dream shifts focus.