I'd say I've been too busy for a journal, but honestly, I just forgot
I have been around, though not participating much. It's been a while since I really did some good writing; I prefer to collect and wait, not grapple with something that isn't there. I'm just not interested in writing at the moment. So, I've kept myself otherwise occupied. Been to Pinnacle Mountain twice:
And climbed about 900 feet up the second time:
Russ did great on the climb. We get back down and I let him go to the playground. Ten minutes later, he faceplants.
We got some snow for a day, Mom and I went to a card-making event at the library, I've had various lunch dates with most of my family - but not with Doc, who I plan to have a very late Christmas with. I've also been explaining the unique narrative structures of video games to him, and my lesson plan includes eventually making him play one My plan is to get him and my PS3 in the same room and make him play Journey, which I find to be an extremely literary game for something with no dialogue.
(Speaking of which, if anyone wants to chat with me about narrative structure in video games, hit me up!)
Went to see Kung Fu Panda 3 a few nights ago - I think the second is still my favorite, though the latest movie is really good. It's been a long time since I've run into a franchise that's consistently this well done - even the shorts I found on Netflix were true to the original. This team is really good about balancing drama and comedy. Plus, I'm a sucker for good fight choreography.
And today I had a job interview with a nanny service, and I'm a background check away from going to work
I'm also getting back into the habit of reading - I'd been kinda dropping off lately. My Goodreads challenge is 50 books for the year (do re-reads count?) Just finished Below by MegMcKinlay, which was a nice, leisurely read that I really enjoyed. I seem to be picking up these quieter book a lot lately - guess that's just what I'm in the mood for right now. Been trying to pull from the kid's section a lot too, now that Russ is growing older; I want to be able to point him to some great books when the time comes I've already promised him I would get him a library card when he turns five in March
Have a pretty sunset.
Notes to Self
Clean your room. Seriously.
DDSuggestionDrive is open!
Considering sending Valentine cards, but it may be a bit late to actually make stuff now.
I'd like to work on another article if I can find something to build around.
No, that pretty much covers everything. I'm pretty chill lately.
MedusaI lost my virginity on the train tracks to a girl named Arietty. It had been her idea to do it in the shadow of an old factory where a weathered word on the back wall mumbled MEDUSA. One day after three glasses of scotch, my dad told me that in his day a whore that went by Polly Pocket used to operate there. She’d give all the boys handjobs over their pants; she was the real Medusa
Arietty was the kind of girl who put on her lip gloss in class but wore sneakers year-round. We swore to each other that we would get married after going away to college—I was going north and she was going west—and live in the big city. I was naive back then, but I’d convinced myself that the orange-haired girl from second period math was the only one.
“I wonder how many trains have gone by this spot,” she whispered beneath me as I fumbled with my zipper. I was wondering how long I could last, but I didn’t tell her that.
what can i say when
the stomach ache turns to
cancer turns to midnight
phone call when i
of alternative remedies
to suggest, to slow
the tide as it
swells against your
i pull over, and i
watch the breaking waves, and i
listen, for what can i
possibly say —
what is there to say?
i can only pray
for the day you can
sprawl over the sunless deck
and not feel the vultures
feasting on your eyes, your
tongue. i pray for absolute
oblivion, that you may
forget you are only ever
i am writing myself into rooms,
four walls, four loves, four
atria pulsing in my chest. i am
writing myself into other people’s
arms as if it makes a damn
difference, i don’t know when
my own hands stopped being enough.
i am a girl made of oceans, i am a girl made of
glass, i am a body made of wax with a tongue
of fire. i have watched saturn drop through
its ring, plummeting into glacial seas and
frost-bitten remnants of constellations,
i have seen silence take shape and sit
heavy on my chest like a mourner
splayed on an empty coffin.
i have written my obituary in a
moment spent diving into concrete
teeth, my memoirs in an hour of sitting
laughing in the rain, i swear i have written
three suicide letters all addressed to the same
person (who I should’ve been, who i shouldn’t have).
i am writing myself into
a pair of jasmine lips as
if she will drink me in and
i can be a part of her, a nerve,
a collection of cells, an organ when
in truth i know i
yellowingthey hate the sound of your voice,
soft and breathy and
brutally honest, shaky, about to cry.
and so you take a string
of their wants and thread them through the eye of a needle
you made from the leftover pieces
of your old personality. softness is a weakness—
no one wants to befriend a time bomb,
nobody falls in love with the cyanide. you cannot cry
and you cannot speak and
you can’t even remember to paint over yourself:
yellow, for happiness, where the sickness
drags down your limbs. yellow, for smiles, so when you
mumble your suicide note, they laugh like
it’s the punchline.
(you always were good at
being a punchline.)