It’s atrophied away, my language engine, and I’m not sure how to start it turning again. My days are spent in the black box, by night in white. Plans are made around me; the world spins round, but I am still — still, not centered.

There has to be an end to it.

I’m looking for a seed. Care and water, care and water, that’s all she needs. So say the instructions. But — let her fly before the sun starts its evening retreat. Better for all concerned.

I never was much for the green things.


Tiptoeing on glass

In Boston, and sick, dog sick, a miserable, all-too-familiar stomach sick. Usually I’m spared a day, a few hours, of peaceful vacationing before it pounces on me like an attention-starved cat — but not this time. I blame airplanes: the filthy, filthy beasts. It’s being stuck in a tin can for five hours breathing stale air infested with who knows how many strains of thisitis or thatococcus — a ripe agar, these modern comforts.

So I am up & unhappily awake. Elaine Pagels is on television, talking about the Gospel of Judas, which at least is good and fascinating. Half of this National Geographic special is a refresher class after reading The Gnostic Gospels, but I eat this stuff up (and am not presently in any condition to consume much else). Beyond Belief is in my travel case, though I cannot justify starting a book at this hour. Hopefully my body will settle down and I can get some rest, and just in time to travel again, too.

I like traveling. It’s the getting there I hate — which is, more or less, the story of my life.


Pixelated reality

Well, since the pain hasn’t started yet, I can happily say that so far, this is the prettiest migraine I’ve ever had…



Well, if you’ve been paying attention to my flickr photostream at all, you’ve probably sussed out my big secret. I finally have a real camera!

[EF 50mm/f1.4]

I know some of you lovely folk just want naked facts, so:

I’ve forgotten how nice it was to hold an SLR and feel the perfect fit of grip-in-hand*, the soft whirr of focus lock & satisfying click-clack of the mirror swinging out of shutter’s way. This whole USM thing is new to me, and wow is it fast — now if I could only get anything to come out correctly focused, I’d be as pumped up as Violet Beauregarde. You’d think that would be the least of my problems.

Oh, and I love this macro lens. I could shoot with it forever, even though it’s just enormous. Thank goodness for neoprene straps.

*though I know some of you think the XT is too small, for my hands, well: mmmm

Seattle’s been in a weeks-long dry freeze, and for the first time since I’ve lived here I’ve been feeling as colorless and cold as the weather. Goodness knows I’ve my share of depression triggers, but I’ve never really thought myself susceptible to seasonal affective disorder. Still, frosted-over grass day after day is uncharacteristic for wintertime here, and maybe there are shadows of my past at play. It’s easy to forget sometimes, but all told, I’ve been very happy in my years in Seattle, while before that… maybe not so much.

But? Now that all is wet and mild and gray again, I’m finding myself really missing the frost.

Life’s funny that way.

Also, tip: rain and brand new camera don’t mix so well!


Digging it out


Spent twenty painful minutes today digging a subcutaneous splinter out of my index finger — ow ow ow. I’ve a hole in my hand to match the one in my arm, now.

Still hurts to do anything, including type* or draw, which is bad, because this is the third night in a row I’ll be at work past two in the morning. In a way, getting that splinter out is like my entire life right now, which means I haven’t had any spare time to spend writing here or posting photos — nothing in the way of creative thinking at all — but I think that things have finally turned a corner for the better.

I mean, I did manage to dig it out, in the end.

I’m just waiting to heal.

* so please forgive this short and rather unpoetic entry…


This is not about jalapeños

I’ve been so long without pain that I’d almost forgotten — not the twinges and tingles and needles that line my daily existence, but that dull seeping ache which leaks in & drives out all other feeling until there’s no longer a line between body and mind, but a single, white-hot flame that cannot be ignored. And oh, I am broken, broken, like Frida and her skeleton of wirework and nails—

But no, I’m not there yet. I can feel it beginning, and I’m afraid.

I had meant to write about fireflies.



Daylight. No rosy-fingered dawn, this; the transformation of the sky over the past few minutes has been from cold, brittle darkness into cold, brittle light. True to form, I’ve emerged from my pre-trip all-nighter fully packed (just in time), and barely awake enough to drive. In just a few minutes I’ll be heading out to the airport to grab a flight to New York.

B. will be at JFK, waiting, hopefully, to carry me and my luggage home.

Obviously, I’m looking forward to the weekend. I have been, for several weeks now. No doubt we’ll dine with mattereaterlad and valerie, the newly settled. Perhaps I’ll visit ground zero for the first time, before they turn it into a park. Maybe, if fortune smiles, I’ll even get enough quality alone time in.

So then why am I sitting here in misery? Why can’t I sleep on these long nights before I set out?

Oh, for some NyQuil.

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