Three Different Ways

Category: Idling

  • I Have A Little Poppet Doll

    So. Um. Here’s another reason why Keri should wait for the coffee to kick in before getting near any communication device in the morning. Oh Twitter, you suffer my abuses of language, and you do it so well.

  • Redressing The Wound

    So I broke apart and bleed in public again. In a Starbucks, no less. The few that asked about my tearful eyes and swollen nose were told, “The Santa Anas have started, and they are taking their due.”. They would smile and nod in understanding, pass on their seasonal advice, and promptly forget about me.

  • Sunday Scribblings #287: “Present”

    As a child, I had rich Christmases. Each year the gifts were more elaborate and more expensive than the year before. Games and dolls and toys and gadgets to keep me occupied. But I never got what I really wanted. I saw them all as flashy noisy bribery to keep me out of the way.

  • Plan B

    The roses. The ribbons. The baby’s breath intertwined. The platters. The goblets. The special bottle of wine. The tablecloth. The napkins. The inked and handwritten cards. All strewn about the floor amidst clumps of broken shards.

  • Odds & Ends

    I have the itch to write, and naught a topic to write about. I’ve been sitting at the keyboard, staring dumbly at the screen to no avail. I do have some ideas to ramble on about, but none of them will have the length I am accustomed to. Maybe I should have made a Tumbler.

  • One Sunday Afternoon

    What silliness. Are you ill? Perhaps you’ve caught a cold, or one of those roving illnesses that sweep through the city from time to time. Look at you. You worry me.

  • Tomorrow

    “When will it open?”, asked the son. “Tomorrow.”, replied the mother. “But I want it to open today!”, demanded the son. “Not the right time.”, replied the mother. And the son was sent out to play.

  • muse

    write and do not stop until after the world has ended and has been reborn anew

  • Who’s Telling This Anyway?

    I have been warned, that I have been making myself too transparent in my writings. Too many details about my inner self, my workings, and my ecstatic path. I have become a Mystery Cult of One with many anthropologists camped outside my hut, ready to pull apart my fetishes the moment I set them down.

  • Playtime

    For the past 45 min, Facebook has refused to accept any input citing database issues. For once, this is a good thing. The amount of unrefined rage that has been bubbling over in my soul for the previous hour had begun to twist at the fabric of my being. I had attempted to pour some…