Binge

Thanks to Netflix, I can now watch tv like I read. Wholly, selfishly. Utterly replete with the story, with my eyes hopelessly fixed on the horizon of "The End". I can't let the story go (if it's a good one) until I get to the end. I will read while I stir dinner on the stove. I will read while I walk, pick up the house; everything. At least with tv shows, I have to wait until bedtime because none of my shows are fit for kids.

The problem is, with reading, I miss little bits. Tiny details. Nuances that I know the author put in there for a reason. Sometimes I'm compelled to reread the story, and in doing so I find it has changed for me. I pick up on the nuances, but I also take the time to relax into the story. Feel the characters. Get a sense of the world that the author created. Rachel Caine gets to me that way. I reread because I enjoy subtleties.

The same thing happens with tv. I want to KNOW EVERYTHING NOW! Especially when it's a popular show and facebook fills with references that I don't understand--Breaking Bad was an obsession more for the need to understand the references than for the joy of the show. I ended up liking it, but there were points where it was just my own willpower pushing me along. Knowing it would end some day.

Then there's Dexter. I watched it the first time to get to the "you're gonna HATE the end" references, and because I enjoyed the show. Now on my second time through (Breaking Bad didn't get a second go), I'm enjoying the details. The hints. The references.

Success!!

HA! I got to it and through it, far surpassing my expectations. It may not be much, but hey...I wrote!

Your Eyes

Are you looking out your window? Do you see more than a frozen smear of sky?

Him

Perhaps that is why he came to Ohio...To learn the meaning of blue. To experience the rarity of sunshine. To find joy in a day when the clouds are merely broken...

Chasing sunbeams, stomping them as if trying to pin them to the ground like a child with a favorite sticker tumbling in the breeze.

Running, running as fast as he can, catching the frayed edges of sunlight, ragged from wind-whipped skies.

Cupped hands cradling such a delicate thing. A tiny bird in his palms. Fists hold no sunlight...

A million colors at his fingertips and yet it's the perfect gray he seeks.

So in love that he find himself on the edge of tears because he can't find the color of her eyes in all those paints in front of him.

You

Eyes. They all have your eyes, despite that I have never seen them. I have felt them, an otherworldly blue that see into and through me. I want to live in that want. Bathe in it. Feel it soak me to my soul.

And if we were ever to touch, even for a moment. I want the world to wonder why the sun stopped in her tracks. Why the earth paused to sigh.

I want the intensity that makes angels cry.

I built a crystal palace for you you. Strong. Enduring. I keep you there, my precious muse.

You whispered sweetness in languages I didn't understand, but felt like honey in my mind, dripping slowly downward through my mouth, my heart, the depths of where my want lives.

And all of this you understood. Without words. Without rules. Without language. The drive that is want. The muse never touched, just held at a sweet, enticing distance.

Them

They all have your eyes.

All That is You

I want to curl up in your world surrounded by all that is you.

I want to construct an erector-set reality lit by Christmas lights that reflect in the glitter in your hair, left over from construction paper angels that we tape to the ceiling with bright curly ribbons.

I want to hide in pillow forts from the snow outside and make wishes on fallen eyelashes. Pinkie promises and whispers, socked feet and secrets.

I want to sleep with you in a twin bed too small for one. Curl up in princess sheets and talk about astronauts. Let the outside winter rage.

I want to fall asleep with you and dream those dreams I had forgotten. Believe in a faraway future and all the millions of maybes.

I want to curl up in your world surrounded by all that is you.

Mixed Bag Fridays and OMG Ballet

My time doesn't march like most other people's time. It has its own special pace, well, I can't call it a pace because that implies some kind of rhythm. Mine has none. I'm pretty sure the drummer quit a long time ago and took his sticks with him. Part of that is being married to an emergency professional whose schedule is willy-nilly no matter what he says. Part of that is just the condition of being me. But Fridays are truly a mixed bag.

Some Fridays are a gift. Husband stays home with Lokisdottir. I grab CoyoteCurls from school, head to ballet, talk WAY too much to patient people--I don't get out much, and I certainly don't get a lot of grownup time without stopping every few seconds to correct LokisDottir, so my head kind've explodes with words. Then she and I have a nice conversation on our way home. I feel rested, relaxed, and am always glad for the alone time with CoyoteCurls. And grownups.

Then there are Those Fridays. Today was a Those Friday. It required a whole lot or retrograde, alignments and a host of astrological metaphors that I'm too tired to make up right now because OMG Ballet...which...I will get to in a second.Or six.

We left the house at 10am. We got home around 9pm. In all that time was furniture shopping (subsequent arguing over space and placement), Costco, grocery, library, and a school Valentine's Day thing that parents were invited to--the kind that if you don't show, your daughter cries and you are certain her world has just ended--OMG Ballet and finally some function a the YMCA that I'm sure I'll remember once the memories resurface.

Most of my day was about "Wow, your hair is really blue!" which was actually kinda fun. It started a great conversation with CoyoteCurl's teacher, and I really appreciated that. Somewhere along the way I volunteered to cook French food for class. I should look in to that sometime. The sales people at the furniture stores had no clue what to do with me though. Women with bright blue hair must not buy expensive furniture very often, but I was fine with taking the lead, because what I want isn't cheap. It's just what I want (which is not a sofa, but chairs wide enough to cuddle. The current wing backs are nice, and I can fit with the girls, but that's about it. I burned the sofa a long time ago. Dog pee. Enough said).

And then there was OMG Ballet. I was so looking forward to my little spot on the floor, but as we pulled in, the giant banner reminded me it was "PARENT PARTICIPATION WEEK". So did CoyoteCurls. I sent husband off with Lokisdottir in hopes she would nap, which she did, but which also meant I was the parent to participate. So I did. And I didn't make it across the floor once before an old injury put me on my bum (short version: ACL repair, hamstring graft, never regained full use of that leg). But gosh darnit, I was gonna participate. So as soon as that particular exercise was over, and my hamstring was out of spasm, I was at the barre. And gosh darn it, I was gonna DO THIS RIGHT!

Now, I've done a lot of pushing myself to extremes in my life. My cycling days, my weight lifting days, karate, full contact, armored combat--single and melee--I've run a half marathon, the forest fire fighting. Basically, I've been an athlete all my life, and it hasn't always been nonviolent. I've only ever had cracked ribs, and that ACL...though I've dislocated every joint that isn't a fixed joint.

My seven year old's ballet class kicked my butt. And it was the crowning jewel of this particular That Friday. And it why I don't really remember much about the Y.

But hopefully the next That Friday will be as far away as Easter, because they always fall near holidays. So I have time to prepare. Or forget, which is more likely.

Crabby Mommy Powers

Today was supposed to bring me some alone time. Some peaceful time. Some time to sit, write, cipher. But it didn't. I'm tapping along between calls for "Help, mommy!!!" because the iPad will not obey. Funny thing about electronics, no? I'm ok with it, for the most part, I was before Lokisdottir discovered puzzles on the iPad. She loves puzzles, which is great, but apparently we are now taking turns. Except that in taking my turn I was just admonished for helping. I think I wanna be three-ish.

I've found, though, that if I don't write, I get crabby, so I do what I can, when I can. And right now my background cacaphony is Barbie Mermaid Tale. Yeah. I know. You raise your kids your way and I'll raise mine my way. It's why I disabled comments. I've been impressed with the Barbie movies, to be honest. Well, most of them. They use classical music, and often retell classic stories in ways that interest my girls. Swan Lake comes to mind.

Yes. I am kinda writing just to get words on the page, even though it goes against everything I believe about writing. I'm not a "slam out a first draft and fix it later" type. It doesn't work for me (back to that word count thing), and while I respect that it can work for others, it's just not me. If I don't feel my characters, I don't do them the disrespect of forcing the writing. I love them too much for that. I love writing too much to make it a chore. So when my writing seems forced here, now you know why!

I'm gonna stop now as my day just shifted gears again. We are celebrating Valentine's Day today instead of Saturday because he works. That's the thing about emergency work of any kind. Holidays are when we make them. Besides. Lokisdottir has decided I need a check-up.

Birth of a Muse

She was there for the first spark, ignited by hello, and that first precious touch. Crouched and patient as only assassins can be; she had been hiding behind memories, lurking in the recesses of emotions, waiting for that perfect match of heat and deep, dark energy--the way it moved like smoke, eddied in the hara, sending tendrils along nerves through all the hidden places. She caught scent of lust, bared teeth in the predator's grin and made her move. Swift. Unrelenting. She was born of all that want, and would subjugate all others until her story was revealed. She will be the last one standing, long after I am gone.

To Done!

Kitchen painted, Rising Stars finished, Jupiter Ascending viewed, re-walked and mended more of the fence around the five acres, even got some real writing done. Some flash, too, but that's how I roll. I'll share that later.

Kitchen painted. Yeah, the wandering around for everything finally go just old enough, and a friend who has been here a lot put and eye on the dottirs while I did it. Now I want to paint the wall around the tv. Orange. Not that seventies aggression orange that someone somewhere thought was good for schools, but a softer orange with a hint of gray. And I like crappy paint jobs, so it will be another crappy paint job. Not a wash, just crappy. It worked out nicely in the bathroom, so here's to hope. And time. And a tall ladder because the ceiling is about 20 feet up right there.

Rising Stars. It's on my recommend list for graphic novels, and the only other one I liked was Preacher. I'd summarize, but I'm no good at summaries that don't include spoilers...which is why when anyone asks "What's it about?" regarding anything, my answer is disjointed and I'm usually fairly certain the listener thinks I'm soft in the head. Which is fine. Low expectations. I'm blond; I've become used to them. No, I'm not kidding.

I really liked Jupiter Ascending. I went in prepared to be disappointed, but they pulled it off. It was BIG, there was a lot of set-up universe wise, but because they pulled from current alien belief (lizard men and grays) they were able to get more done. Sci-Fi like that isn't easy in this post-franchise world that Marvel/Disney brought to us. We develop understandings of characters over time (which, hey, the more Tom Hiddleston the better), and see the process of growth. It reminded me in some ways of Dune, but I slept through most of those (blasphemy, I know). Anyway. I liked it.

I will give my piece of flash its own entry, in part because it's fairly brutal. It's the birth of a story, and birth is never gentle.