Camp NaNo, Day 2 (But Technically I Just Woke Up)

Brains...brains... Here we are, first thing in the morning on the second day of Camp NaNo. What I'd like to do (and might still), is grab a cup of coffee and drive out to the park and write. It is camp. And I did wake up to a bunkmate scraping his paws across the fan because he was sleeping with his nose practically pressed against the faceplate, so that feels very much like something you'd do in a cabin where the a/c is basically the breeze.

Camp is also (after food, nature hikes, and camp cliques) about crafting. That means I need to update my bulletin board (pics to come), which functions as my idea board/inspiration and really should have been done earlier and plan out a bracelet (which means a trip to Home Depot for brass washers...there may be a post on this later) and maybe a small zine for an outline. My primary goal for this month is to fill up the notebook pictured above and it might be nice to have an easy summary of what the story eventually becomes.

This is actually the underlying theme of this camp: what is Slay Me a Love Song becoming after living in my head and in disparate draft pieces for years?

With that, it's back out into the wilderness of blank pages. If you're at camp as well this month, hope you're having fun!

-- chrissa

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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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