Three Different Ways:
Dreams, Madness, and Myths
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You Are Here
Everything was white. I couldn’t tell where the floor ended and where the ceiling began. If there was a ceiling. I had yet to encounter a wall. Or chair. Or another person. Or a speck of dirt. Everything was white, glowing white. Except for me. I’m still in the clothes I left for work in.
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Rising Fire
Settled down. Tucked into bed. At rest feeling the day’s issues slide into the past. Only thinking of the pleasure of sleep. Not considering the troubles that would wake with the dawn. It’s good to rest. To feel the blood in my veins, the air moving in my lungs. Engaged in the symphony of senses.
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The Call
He watched his roommate pace back and forth for hours. Each time he passed the phone, he would linger for the briefest of moments. Unusually bright eyes caressed each curve and dirt stained buttons. He had tried to get his roommate to sit down, to be distracted by the routine they had built up together.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A Host Of Shadows
This happened over three years ago, in the early spring of 2008. I am reminded of it every time I turn onto the freeway. PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Sleepy driving is deadly. If you are tired, pull over. Better a ticket than killing yourself or others. Do not assume what saved my ass will save yours.
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By A Thread
Migraine time again. So many images sweeping me up into a vortex of cacophonic assaults of light and movement. Many of them, nothing but misfirings of stressed neurons. Something to chuckle at, then discard like a Facebook opinion. But two days after one image in particular, I keep finding my attention drawn back to it.
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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.
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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.
Got any book recommendations?