A Weed on The Curb

  Where the water runs chasing wilder hunts, more slip there the dark dirt sits. Immediately confessing to being a twit. Last week was pretty much a washout thanks to a stomach bug and, yeah, just glad to be posting. Still, I'm a total twit.  -- Chrissa

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'...

I am in the glass store; the small storefront near the yoga studio and the eye doctor and... well, the gift store closed last month. I walked past the blank darkness earlier. It reminded me of sleeping and waking, a city beneath me, then swirling down into it, my eyes young enough to see every glint. Sleeping and waking into the university city; now my hair is wilder, wispier, and the dark glass shows a parking lot, a road, dust patterns. This familiar emptiness fills glass, this broad sky in which I've been sleeping and waking allows for breathing, when I'm already city-filled. Sharing with The Sunday Muse #168 .  -- Chrissa

  Sharing as part of The Sunday Muse #167  and in honor of old friends. We came to the riverside in high school Everything was laced in myth. We listened to our steps We found some remnant acorn We went home and thought about: The last time we'd find the boat The last time we'd laugh over pizza The last time we'd roll our eyes over Roger The last time we'd have a sleepover Or maybe we'd think about tomorrow Let the myths flow out, taking their lace On a tidal lurch strong enough to drag That old boat into heaven on the river That runs into every sea and port and planet; Night, herself, as all the waters there are dark. We came to the riverside in high school And walked until we found the boat And drifted on from there.   This is the month for Camp NaNo. If you're not familiar, Camp NaNo is a choose-your-own-writing-project-goal month associated with the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) organization, which just means that--for me--this month is something ...

  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 be...

  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...w...

  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