Just pretend this whole journal is one big sigh, okay?
The last five days, Russ has been at my house nearly 24/7. It was my brother's week with him and he was supposed to get this time off from work, but that didn't happen. So most of my week was spent taking care of little man, keeping him entertained, taking him places, and so forth. I'll have to do it again in the week after next. He's cute and all, but can also be a brat; either way, it's very draining.
So I'm also behind on my mail surprises - I didn't want to get my crafting materials out while he was still here. I'm making as many as I can this weekend Some of you probably already have yours. I also bought more stamps recently, so that should tide me over as well. I hope no one was expecting something super-awesome out of these - they're really just little handmade hellos I've already written out the last four addresses and will have them mailed on Monday.
My roadtrip to Blytheville has been cancelled - Mary Ellen's mother took a fall bad enough to land her in the hospital, so she went to take care of her for a while. In the meantime, Doc has come up with a new radio project for me to work on. The Facts About Fiction we did have been picked up by a larger station and we're now working on something in a similar vein for a show he's dubbed "Book Reports." There's a lot of attention on kid's literature and "adult" (for lack of a better term) literature, but no one is doing anything with adolescent literature. So that what they show will be focused on. I've already got one script on Jaclyn Moriarty down and plan to write one for Wendy Mass tonight. Doc is hoping to get those on a bigger station as well, and maybe I'll get some writing credits to put on my resume.
And now, pictures:
Took Russ to an aquarium; he kept pointing out the lionfish.
There was also a tortoise loose in the aquarium named Slowpoke, or Pokey. It took a while to convince little man that there wasn't anything to be afraid of and even more prompting to get him to sit still long enough to snap a picture.
Cupcakes here are like, two bucks. Do you know how cheap that is? Any other bakery wants at least $3.50.
Little man stayed in my room all week. I stole the air mattress from my parents and shuffled my stuff about so there would be enough room. That's my closet door back there, so don't worry about getting hit with the door
Obligatory sunset photo
DailyLitRecognition puts the spotlight on introverted-ghost this week!
Homelessness mini contest
Love Letter Contest
A new group from Nichrysalis - HundredMemories!
The book club is doing The Thief Lord this month.
If you're looking for something to do around dA, AlphaManifest has a project worth looking into.
worldlymy father has europe and asia painted on
tawny skin, the scent of shanghai in his
nostrils and hazel eyes afire with amsterdam
my father has seen dunes
deserts, vast oases of concrete,
flown over fathoms and watched
steam curl slowly from turbines
thousands of miles away from the familiar
taste of morning teacups and the clink
of spoons in ceramic
his daughter exhales england, the scent of
wood burning and 3am. she dreams of london,
berlin, vienna, sofia, rome, copenhagen,
budapest and minsk and riga, helsinki and stockholm.
each plane overhead is a breath of belgrade
or dashes of denmark:
his daughter will one day wake up
on the wrong side of the bed a thousand
miles away drenched in brisk air, smiling
with her own face on
My Words are a Waste of PaperI tend to buy journals
and leave their pages blank.
They are a collection of
beautiful covers and waiting lines
that I don’t want to mar
with the sin of my
crowded letters and ink smears.
They say that every word has a meaning
(some two or three),
but my soul has never spilled out
any with worth.
Every letter I put down
makes me want to rip a page out,
but then it’ll no longer be a goal;
instead, it’ll be broken and ugly
just like me.
i forbid youyour brittle bones beg for bullets-
and i deny you the painful pleasure
you are swallowing pills not to feel better-
but to feel nothing
Touch Is PoetryToday, you recite Frost.
I've always loved being read to,
But for some reason,
This morning I can scarcely
Absorb your flowing words,
Which instead trickle through my fingers
As their tips register
The vibrations of your voice
At the place where
Your chest and shoulder intersect,
Then trail down your bicep
To the crook of your elbow,
Then turn down the path
Of your forearm,
Then happen, at last,
Upon your precious left hand,
Which brackets the dusty anthology.
I hope you know I touch you
Because I adore you,
Not just because I can't see you.
happily ever after? not really.cinderella is dead,
because you read other stories
and just couldn't keep your hands
from tangling in rapunzel's golden hair
or caressing aurora's sleeping face.
trace decaythere’s a trunk full of newspaper clippings
that explain far better than I ever could
the hollow madness that became of our lives
all the homes and the headlines we made
outside the courthouse in the rain
with gaps in my memory like missing teeth
and prison letters cluttering the mailbox
before the silence came and unspoke the truth
words caught like barbed wire in my throat
and i could not give you any more, i am
running in the opposite direction
with my trunk full of bad journalism
and memories drowning behind me
like passengers on a ship riddled with holes