Magnificence/Lycra

For today's WordCrafters prompt:

They are the same: the ocean and this housedress.

Both spun and soaked and sunned

dark as a faded sky.

And underneath? Turquoise yoga pants today,

Patterned like a shallow sea,

Like this place

Years back when dinosaurs bellowed

From cycads near a sandy rim

state parks away.

I am the ghost of my sea-haunted

childhood library, now

spine-cracked,

Which I am, today, dusting.

The photo above is taken several moments before I noticed a palm-sized orb spider nearby and very nearly yelled and passed out in the waterlilies. Orb spiders don't really bother me, except when I see one unexpectedly huge and nearby and am out in the afternoon sun perhaps a little longer than I should have been.

Fortunately, I made it back to the car and home without further incident, to be greeted by Arthur bouncing up and poking his snout in my face to make sure that I hadn't snuck a second lunch while out. And now, back to drafting...which is going to look a good deal like reading on the couch but is the mental equivalent of turning the compost heap to make sure the soil is rich and full of potential. It was good to be out of doors and among writers this afternoon. :)

-- Chrissa

Comments

Treacle Season

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 , hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge dreaming an angel who became a superhero. She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall. The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s) I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city... Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion: there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it. -- Chrissa

Turn Away

Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm. Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story. Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of

Out of the Den

For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why. -- Chrissa

A Weed on The Curb

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