Hoo-hah, I Whacked! Top of the Whack Stack, as of this moment...can't last, but it's still great, since I never got to put my initials on any of the vidcade games I won...Oh, guess I didn't win any, that must be why....
And the big question is, what the HELL am I doing still up?
Well, duh. Killing braincells surfing, and writing in spurts. Pfah, if the woman had any discipline, she might get somewhere someday. Tough to leave the keyboard, as the new space heater makes it more than tolerable out here in the glass room. Though the thermostat on the unit's remote reads a mere 66*F, it still beats the hell out of what the ambient temp would be otherwise.
This all black thing has something going for it...in the mall (that's right, bub, I said "in the mall". As in, I was there. I know, not my usual.) I saw this cute sweater (that's right, bub, the woman said "cute sweater") but it wasn't black, so I avoided buying it.
I did not, however, avoid buying (as Belle terms them) knickers.
On my list, but unimaginatively left on the shelf, until now.
News flash, boys and girls: An appliance is NOT a sexy gift. No matter how useful.
31 December, 2003
30 December, 2003
Sapphire Day
The clouds give a certain multi-hued flatness to the sky this morning. By the time Shiloh and I return home, the sun and wind have torn holes in the moisture-ladden blanket, and brilliant azure eyes peep through at me, gorgeous and smiling.
Today is the day that the Hans Brinker cast gathers for ice skating in upscale downtown Glen Burnie, at a very nice outdoor rink. I have resolved ahead of time that I will not skate, as yesterday saw me miserable, my every joint anticipating the early morning rain. When I wake, there is evidence on the ground of rainfall, and walking the dog is painful. I rent skates for the kids, and help them into them. They go out on the ice. My ankle says "no" but my heart yearns to participate, my body clamors to fly at high speed, though it's likely been fifteen years since I wore blades. I am not, by nature, a wallflower. The sky is now a mass of blue beauty, punctuated with handfulls of fluff. I watch a hawk hunt pigeons, who scatter unartfully.
And no one who knows me, not Carla, who said, Hawk will kill us, Jose who said, I'm not gonna talk you out of it, Mark (via Carla's cellphone, he's sick) who threatened to kick my ass, JB, on my cell phone about casting Watergate!, who said Guuuuurl!, or even Hawk himself (whenever he hears of it) will be the least bit surprised that I must put my complaining ankle on ice tonight.
Worth it, though, ohhhhhh, yeaaaahhhh.
The clouds give a certain multi-hued flatness to the sky this morning. By the time Shiloh and I return home, the sun and wind have torn holes in the moisture-ladden blanket, and brilliant azure eyes peep through at me, gorgeous and smiling.
Today is the day that the Hans Brinker cast gathers for ice skating in upscale downtown Glen Burnie, at a very nice outdoor rink. I have resolved ahead of time that I will not skate, as yesterday saw me miserable, my every joint anticipating the early morning rain. When I wake, there is evidence on the ground of rainfall, and walking the dog is painful. I rent skates for the kids, and help them into them. They go out on the ice. My ankle says "no" but my heart yearns to participate, my body clamors to fly at high speed, though it's likely been fifteen years since I wore blades. I am not, by nature, a wallflower. The sky is now a mass of blue beauty, punctuated with handfulls of fluff. I watch a hawk hunt pigeons, who scatter unartfully.
And no one who knows me, not Carla, who said, Hawk will kill us, Jose who said, I'm not gonna talk you out of it, Mark (via Carla's cellphone, he's sick) who threatened to kick my ass, JB, on my cell phone about casting Watergate!, who said Guuuuurl!, or even Hawk himself (whenever he hears of it) will be the least bit surprised that I must put my complaining ankle on ice tonight.
Worth it, though, ohhhhhh, yeaaaahhhh.
29 December, 2003
My dear friend Wes
Sorry I see you less
Me and mine
Is doing fine
Bones heal
Tree's not real
Holidays low key
Okay by me
Walking good
Endurance should
Improve with time
Little work for mime
Kids are fighting
Keep busy writing
Watergate! begins
for shits and grins
Hawk's still driving
I'm surviving
Thanks for the thoughts
I really ought
to say Balloon guy blows
hope your business grows
Last bit for your ear:
have a Happy New Year!
Spur of the moment doggerel I made up in response to Wes Holly's one line inquiry as to how I'm doing, hope he appreciates the humor. Kind of a snappy summation of the month, though not even close to Mayfly brevity.
Twenty things I've never done, in no particular order:
Had a tattoo.
Been a bridesmaid.
Gone to Vegas (or anywhere) to gamble.
Had accupuncture.
Auditioned for a role.
Been arrested.
Answered a Personal.
Owned ferrets.
Ridden in a limosine.
Eaten sushi.
Gone bungee jumping.
Painted with oils.
Rolled a car.
Seen a Humphrey Bogart movie.
Shaved my head.
Ridden a motorcycle, solo.
Been in a bar fight.
Learned to juggle.
Danced naked in the rain.
Gotten plastered on New Year's Eve.
Who's surprised? And at what?
Sorry I see you less
Me and mine
Is doing fine
Bones heal
Tree's not real
Holidays low key
Okay by me
Walking good
Endurance should
Improve with time
Little work for mime
Kids are fighting
Keep busy writing
Watergate! begins
for shits and grins
Hawk's still driving
I'm surviving
Thanks for the thoughts
I really ought
to say Balloon guy blows
hope your business grows
Last bit for your ear:
have a Happy New Year!
Spur of the moment doggerel I made up in response to Wes Holly's one line inquiry as to how I'm doing, hope he appreciates the humor. Kind of a snappy summation of the month, though not even close to Mayfly brevity.
Twenty things I've never done, in no particular order:
Had a tattoo.
Been a bridesmaid.
Gone to Vegas (or anywhere) to gamble.
Had accupuncture.
Auditioned for a role.
Been arrested.
Answered a Personal.
Owned ferrets.
Ridden in a limosine.
Eaten sushi.
Gone bungee jumping.
Painted with oils.
Rolled a car.
Seen a Humphrey Bogart movie.
Shaved my head.
Ridden a motorcycle, solo.
Been in a bar fight.
Learned to juggle.
Danced naked in the rain.
Gotten plastered on New Year's Eve.
Who's surprised? And at what?
27 December, 2003
Revisiting
A book I finished recently had me yearning for my I-Ching paraphenalia, that for awhile I carried with me everywhere. I have yet to finish personalizing these tools.
I polish up the brass coins Barbara at Somewear Beyond minted for me a couple of years ago, and go through my pamphlets. Though I am midway through the rewriting process, replacing each oracle with a new one more geared for the Western ear, and I realize that I am half-and-half new and old, I did not know that I had no version at all, old or new, of Mountain.
No Mountain. No Mountain?
Metaphorically, that would explain a lot. Like the time I had to shop for Mimi supplies because I was out of Joy. Out of Joy. I have made it a point since then to always have at least a partially full bottle of Joy somewhere in my domain. I lacked in Mountain, stillness, contemplation. My Mountain went missing.
I rewrite the Mountain pamphlet, stunned that I should have lost track of it, since it contains some of my very favorite oracular readings. It takes most of the day.
Coins polished, I throw two related questions. How surprised am I that one comes up Brief Encounter and the other is Soul Mates? Not at all. The DaVincian principle of Sfumato at work once again. Neither being, incidentally, from the freshly crafted Mountain paper.
And nearly equal in silliness factor, for my horoscope at Free Will Astrology, Rob Breszny gives me this quote from Abraham Maslow: "The great lesson from the true mystics is that the sacred is in the ordinary, that it is to be found in one's daily life, in one's neighbors, friends, and family, in one's back yard." True. A year late to be strictly informative, but true.
Life. You have to laugh. No one gets out alive; meanwhile, go for maximum amusement.
A book I finished recently had me yearning for my I-Ching paraphenalia, that for awhile I carried with me everywhere. I have yet to finish personalizing these tools.
I polish up the brass coins Barbara at Somewear Beyond minted for me a couple of years ago, and go through my pamphlets. Though I am midway through the rewriting process, replacing each oracle with a new one more geared for the Western ear, and I realize that I am half-and-half new and old, I did not know that I had no version at all, old or new, of Mountain.
No Mountain. No Mountain?
Metaphorically, that would explain a lot. Like the time I had to shop for Mimi supplies because I was out of Joy. Out of Joy. I have made it a point since then to always have at least a partially full bottle of Joy somewhere in my domain. I lacked in Mountain, stillness, contemplation. My Mountain went missing.
I rewrite the Mountain pamphlet, stunned that I should have lost track of it, since it contains some of my very favorite oracular readings. It takes most of the day.
Coins polished, I throw two related questions. How surprised am I that one comes up Brief Encounter and the other is Soul Mates? Not at all. The DaVincian principle of Sfumato at work once again. Neither being, incidentally, from the freshly crafted Mountain paper.
And nearly equal in silliness factor, for my horoscope at Free Will Astrology, Rob Breszny gives me this quote from Abraham Maslow: "The great lesson from the true mystics is that the sacred is in the ordinary, that it is to be found in one's daily life, in one's neighbors, friends, and family, in one's back yard." True. A year late to be strictly informative, but true.
Life. You have to laugh. No one gets out alive; meanwhile, go for maximum amusement.
26 December, 2003
"Why do you like that guy so much?" he asks me.
"Dunno," I respond. "I guess I think he needs it."
Does this end up being about me, then? Is it all ego? Perhaps. But I would hate to think that I had it to give, and didn't, and somebody needed it, and didn't get it.
Because witholding is not my way. Omission will not be counted among my sins.
Though excess perhaps will be.
Checking out someone's blog at random again. What's a googlewhack?
"Dunno," I respond. "I guess I think he needs it."
Does this end up being about me, then? Is it all ego? Perhaps. But I would hate to think that I had it to give, and didn't, and somebody needed it, and didn't get it.
Because witholding is not my way. Omission will not be counted among my sins.
Though excess perhaps will be.
Checking out someone's blog at random again. What's a googlewhack?
24 December, 2003
One Foggy Christmas Eve
A beautiful fog wraps the world in cotton. Traffic is an endless shimmering chain of white lights and red, smearing color across the mist, and little else.
While I am in the chiropractic office, fog transforms to diamond rain. Lisa has scolded me for allowing my pride and competitiveness to interfere with my Inner Voice which knew better and told me to stop.
And what is it but pride and competetiveness when Luke sneers, "Do whatever you want; you'll never get it right," which makes me determined to rehearse a move that wasn't properly choreographed to begin with. In the end, of course, he was correct. I never did get it right.
Bruises prove only stubborness that I kept trying.
This week's lesson: when it's wrong, say No.
From Tuesday, 23 December
And Then He Kissed Me
"I'm only doing this because you're here," he said, looking at my husband, "and because I've been drinking." Then he grabbed the back of my head and Laid One On Me.
Right there in the bar.
Wow.
A beautiful fog wraps the world in cotton. Traffic is an endless shimmering chain of white lights and red, smearing color across the mist, and little else.
While I am in the chiropractic office, fog transforms to diamond rain. Lisa has scolded me for allowing my pride and competitiveness to interfere with my Inner Voice which knew better and told me to stop.
And what is it but pride and competetiveness when Luke sneers, "Do whatever you want; you'll never get it right," which makes me determined to rehearse a move that wasn't properly choreographed to begin with. In the end, of course, he was correct. I never did get it right.
Bruises prove only stubborness that I kept trying.
This week's lesson: when it's wrong, say No.
From Tuesday, 23 December
And Then He Kissed Me
"I'm only doing this because you're here," he said, looking at my husband, "and because I've been drinking." Then he grabbed the back of my head and Laid One On Me.
Right there in the bar.
Wow.
22 December, 2003
Magic of Christmas
Santa Claus kneels on the carpeted floor, listens attentively to the little girl addressing him with serious eyes. All in green, my daughter answers carefully his questions as to her behavior. His voice is soft, gentle, reassuring, and sweetly familiar. I capture this moment with my eyes, she leaning against his red fur suit, he tenderly cupping her shoulder. A camera in my hands cannot frame this earnest exchange, as both of them have photograph radar, and turn to pose with nary even an interruption. It's past nine and Santa has arrived for the most brief of visits, many of the children having already gone home from this party where he is a welcome surprise guest. Santa exits quietly and without ceremony, having said farewell to each child. My daughter runs out the door and calls after him, "I love you, Santa!" Turning back, the deep voice answers, "I love you, too."
And tears spring to my eyes as the pieces of the Universe fall into place. I am created to love people, created to create people who love people.
He soon re-enters as himself. I do not tell this fight choeographer that I have hurt my shoulder, elbow, arm, toes and neck doing stage combat that I've neither the training nor the coordination to carry off properly. He'd shake his head at me and call me a stupid girl. Which I am.
We walk out of Tom and Mary Ann's lovely party together. He hugs me one-armed, and I tell him, "I love you." He pats me and says, "You take care."
Yes. Thanks.
Santa Claus kneels on the carpeted floor, listens attentively to the little girl addressing him with serious eyes. All in green, my daughter answers carefully his questions as to her behavior. His voice is soft, gentle, reassuring, and sweetly familiar. I capture this moment with my eyes, she leaning against his red fur suit, he tenderly cupping her shoulder. A camera in my hands cannot frame this earnest exchange, as both of them have photograph radar, and turn to pose with nary even an interruption. It's past nine and Santa has arrived for the most brief of visits, many of the children having already gone home from this party where he is a welcome surprise guest. Santa exits quietly and without ceremony, having said farewell to each child. My daughter runs out the door and calls after him, "I love you, Santa!" Turning back, the deep voice answers, "I love you, too."
And tears spring to my eyes as the pieces of the Universe fall into place. I am created to love people, created to create people who love people.
He soon re-enters as himself. I do not tell this fight choeographer that I have hurt my shoulder, elbow, arm, toes and neck doing stage combat that I've neither the training nor the coordination to carry off properly. He'd shake his head at me and call me a stupid girl. Which I am.
We walk out of Tom and Mary Ann's lovely party together. He hugs me one-armed, and I tell him, "I love you." He pats me and says, "You take care."
Yes. Thanks.
