hello, september, i love you

summer is dead, thank god for that. i hate those last few weeks, the grass shriveling and insects coughing up their own dusty innards. now we have CHILL. now we have striped knee sock mornings and piles of wrinkled sweaters and sweatshirts in my back seat – shoes that stay attached firmly to your foot the entire time you walk – none of that gum-smacking flip-flop shit. proper shoes lashed in place.

karma or fate or maybe just plain old time has taken something from me that i will not say aloud, only maybe that i have shown hubris in my declaration of raccoon magpie squirrel lock-picking wallet-stealing persuasive manner of life, and my hand – very literally my hand – was smacked, and i lost a tiny and meaningful piece of something that was in fact my most prized Acquired Object. i have had it for 16 years exactly, one year longer than my 2nd most prized Acquired Object (a half inch orange plastic horse from a quarter machine in Wyoming). extra xanax and two hours of flashlight house-combing could not bring this speck of preciousness back to me. not that i thought it could, but try try we had to try. i’m not saying i’ll tuck my sticky fingers back in my pockets (i am a magnet for treasures and it is my nature to keep people with me by keeping people on me), i just think all the bravado and downright puffed chest about the whole thing was/is unnecessary. stomach-turning, this was. i lost my most precious confiscated Precious….

speaking of hats, i have collected many new ones. i am now Coach Gowin (laugh, it’s funny) and R.C. (if you live within 90 miles and don’t come to portsmouth to see BUG and watch me do fake lines of coke and kiss a girl on the mouth then i renounce my love for you) and screenwriter (again! same project – should be doing that now, in fact, but my batteries are loooow). so if I were Batman, as the question was once posed, i think Soccer Mom would be drunk-partying persona Bruce Wayne, R.C. and prose/screenwriter would be ass-kicking slightly-detached-from-sanity Batman, and me sitting here in the recliner with a crayon (for underlining of course) tucked in my book and script within reach and cat at my feet would be lucid-between-role-playing Bruce Wayne. id, ego, superego? right?

OH! OH!!!! but on a happy note – i found the fucking Batman ring. that’s gotta be the note on which i end this post:

(the batman ring post)

nymphish stories at Nefarious Muse

here we go!

three short pieces, the first auto-biographical (and therefore borderline vomit-inducing) work ever to be exposed to eyes other than mine… bit of a departure from the blood and guts, faithful to the dark, as always….

http://nefariousmuse.com/2011/05/06/three-stories-by-amanda-gowin/

2am, no tylenol pm, no benadryl…

,,, and so i’m awake. feedback given on 2 pieces, photo funya explored, Deadly Women watched, mild facebook stalking complete and unsatisfactory, dogs with full bellies (ALL ELEVEN), menfolk asleep, fire humming (i know crackling would sound better, but it’s just NOT, it’s humming), ceiling stared at, head cocked, tomorrow planned for, today evaluated and found satisfactory (and more than satisfactory), domesticity planned including heels, snow falling – or drifting, or floating, slowly. slowly, slowly….

low lights and the sounds of the keys. typing to hear them, too braindead to put my fingers to good use. listening to the fire and my fingers, and the drone of a documentary voiceover.

can. i. feel. my. heartbeat. as a sensation or as a sound? sensation. i never hear it. it rattles, coughs, bounces off my ribs and laughs, large and sloppy wet. the color of meat in fridge light at midnight, in the last hours before it goes bad.

but it’s been this color since….

well, at least it’s fat, and it works. my eyes are swollen – they might be getting rounder, my contacts slide around on them a lot lately.

bridget is drumming her fingertips (no nails, they’re bitten down) on a greyish formica table in the rec room, chin on her opposite palm, waiting for me to get my shit together so she and charlotte can get on with their dastardly plans – charlotte now fancies them villians, with arched backs and arched eyebrows, black capes and snickers and mischief. bridget now knows they are children, doing things movie-style because sometimes there is simply no other way to do them….

my soft kitty entry video wouldn’t load, that sucks, the timeslot is closed. i didn’t even know what the prize was, but i wanted to enter.

that’s all, i think. for now. glad when i wake up it will be friday.

wait, there are real things!

tomorrow is adam’s big Haircut Day. he goes in a baby, comes out a man. i’ll take too many pictures. he won’t be scared, he’s too excited. I’M excited.

the puppies are 4 weeks old this morning. they eat mush from a cracked devilled eggs platter and bark and growl and wink and blink. adam has selected a large and fluffy one, not the largest but easily the most mellow – and dubbed him R2D2. now when there are puppy riots and escapes, he heads directly for the door and into the house. he wants snuggled and scratched, and to sprawl on the lap of my son, to make eye contact and sniff, to learn about their relationship. my son wants them to play all the time. he is tender and careful and comfortable – they make a good match. i like them together. every boy needs a dog.

that is all. and here are the corresponding photos: