chapter 2 (2) & In the Night Garden

it is not finished – i open and look at the fairly well-aligned scraps, i knit my eyebrows in a very studious way, put my fingers over the keyboard – remove them again, take a sip of coffee, scroll up and down, sigh deeply and with much thought, fold my lip between my fingers, adjust the font size, another sip of coffee, wonder what will happen in chapter 7, rub the furrow between my brows, glance across the road at the llama standing at the mailbox white on white in the snow staring at me and i think  ‘surely that llama can’t actually see me from here, if nothing else the glare on the window would keep him from looking in’  another sip of coffee – minimize the window, go to the front door to take a better look at the llama who by this time is taking a shit because that’s what all animals i make eye contact with these days DO – they take a shit – then i frown and go back to my seat, pick up the laptop, open the window again, cut three to four lines that definately do not fit, say “adam, do you want more eggs?”  “no, i just want to crash cars.”  save the document, close it – fast forward 8 hours, repeat…..

headcold gravity. my legs are simply too heavy to do anything domestically productive besides cook, and do a little laundry – i guess what i mean to say is i will continue to step over matchbox cars as i walk past the precarious pile of dirty dishes until possibly thursday. the sky is no color. my brain and eyes feel veeeeery far back inside my skull, even further distanced by my glasses. adam is bored with me.  he’s headcold heavy, too, and wants toys brought to him. i get it. i’m not doing it, but i get it. if someone would bring me coffee i would rather have it that way. i will fetch him tissues and juice and popsicles and food, but i will not bring him new matchbox cars or a different comb to work on my little ponies’ rat’s nest hair.  eric is as we are, only putting in 12 hour days at the lab regardless. i would have him here. snotty and in his pajamas with us.

i like makka pakka the best. i get that, collecting rocks and washing random things. i have a lot of rocks, and they are very clean.

february 1st i go LIVE with my second ever online published (anywhere published) story on , in the Bleeding Hearts issue.  i’ll list that in my hopeful Things of Mine page when it comes to be. it’s a stripper story, an idea given me by angela and cropped in half for the purposes of  fitting the wordcount and somehow becoming a better story…. i have a vampire story that might work for the next issue but don’t want to push my luck, i have sleep to get and feedback to give and am waiting to hear back from a couple other places about different stories and there’s always CHAPTER 2 to be fixing, and i do not want to overwhelm one place with a kind editor with story-pressure… also i think the vampire story mentions the 12 step program, and as i just sent them a story about someone in AA that seems a bit excessive for one topic, though they were written years apart….

i will close with a photo selected at random from a hotmail folder i just found containing a bunch of old cell phone pictures – i  clicked on a photo code and this was there. it was taken on 12/15/07, out the back window of our old apartment – there’s a vase of dried flowers (from our one year wedding anniversary), and a ton of snow on our back deck. i was 7 months pregnant….

  and this photo, which would have been used today if i were continuing with that Author of the Day business: F. Scott Fitzgerald was next, here’s scott & zelda:

october gaining speed…

last evening was one of those really vivid ones, the ones you know you’ll remember. usually the light tells me – in certain light, i get that very clear “i will remember this” feeling, and can feel a postcard memory crystallizing.

it was everything. adam in brown stripes running on the lawn after a blue nubby football eric won for him at the apple festival. the light had a 6 o-clock slant and the llamas danced as though national geographic cameramen crouched behind the fences. sun on our faces. started with just the two of us, i held the football lucy-style and he ran at it repeatedly, sometimes missing the kick all on his own and falling flat, only to pop up and retreat half the yard away to try again. he can KICK. eric emerged from a nap to water the horses around the same time mike’s truck rumbled up, and soon it was the four of us in the yard – taking turns holding the football and chasing it after the kick, trajectory unpredictable.

we cheered and ran and passed and kicked and made an odd group of football players chasing an aquamarine football.  mike in his overalls and cap and bounding yellow dog, eric half-asleep at first and smiling, adam’s cheeks red, overjoyed. for a half hour or seven hours, the horses watched at the fence and adam took his meandering runs – stopping to kiss the dog sometimes, or throw in a dance move –  and the sun was warm and he kicked far.

i retreated to sit on the front steps for a moment near the box of sidewalk chalk, the tree i’d sketched imprinting onto my jeans, and knew i would remember, reverse deja vu. crackly grass and scattered leaves, the light on half of each face alternating. my sunglasses felt like camera lenses, old super 8 home movies crackling straight into my brain.

purple prose – but a thousand blinks on the evening of thursday, october 7th, 2010 will be representative of this entire fall, i believe…

grey matter & llamas

i can feel quite clearly my brain has come loose from its moorings, sort of rattling around in there, clonking off the sides of my head as i tilt it – each pressure point throwing up a random image or memory – tilt forward – clonk – scene from buffy where spike threw his arms over the cross and smoke rose – tilt to the right – rattle and smack – did herman melville’s work process for moby dick look ANYTHING like i picture it? at the begininnig with him MAD with ideas, pacing at the front of a stuffy attic room full of ramshackle desks, gathered vagrants, poor students and generally confused hopefuls bent over books and pads, or scribbling general knowledge, others sketching rudimentary sketches of whales and their anatomy, unable to spell but drawing the pictures up from their minds, coaxing them out, all with the dust swirling in the light from the one open window, and melville as i picture him, pacing and feeling a bit of the ahab as he watched the information accumulate and pile into stacks of gorgeous paper and the idea and obsession clogged his head and he smoked and stopped to scratch snatches of prose or single interesting words or effective descriptions – tilt right, pop neck, smack – they can’t seriously be thinking about putting more animals in that field. what is that? buncha horses, two llamas, two miniature donkeys, a regualr donkey, a rabbit hutch, and  now a  chicken coop?? dumb fucks. rednecks with money are ten times worse than poor rednecks – head shake, eye scrunch, shake rattle and roll – how many times can you come apart without doing it safely under the cover of night and not end up divorced? and how much sleep do you really need to survive? and how clean does a house have to be to count as clean? does it have to be MORE clean if the judges are landlords? what about landlords AND relatives? how many books are enough for a two-year-old for one day? ten one day, one the next, zero, then two, five, five, four, two, ten, none, etc and on… does the inconsistency make for inconsistent brain development? how much m- c- has to build up in your system before m- into c- m- and start causing headaches and sickness? is there already tissue damage, organ damage, brain damage, irreversible damage, by that point?  if so, how much? – big sigh, chin on chest, squelch sound, brain resting against back of eyeballs, pushing them forward in sockets – how long before i short out? – tilt back – i haven’t watched titus andronicus in like a year, i’m really in the mood for some gorgeous violence and shakespearean monologues “OFT I HAVE DUG UP THE BODIES-”  – yawn, feeling grey matter run down the back of throat, acidy phlegm, don’t cough, that’s your brain, swallow hard – if solitary bees build nests of flower petals, how do they become solitary? what makes them suddenly break free? or are they cast out??