I think I might start posting weekly instead of daily. Spending time on my work makes me create better work, which makes me post better work, which makes me a better writer and blogger, which spares you having to slog through too much mediocre crap, and that makes us all better people. But there’s something else.
It took something like *checks web stats* 2500 compliments, but I think I’m confident enough to start submitting work to publications. THANK YOU. This means I’m going to have to spend more time writing, redrafting, refining, etc.
I read somewhere (I can’t find the source anymore, sorry) about a girl who made a goal to get 100 rejections. I like this idea. I’m going to try it.
Narrowing of Time
Walking down the street
the snow is falling fast
gathering on my hood and the ends of my hair
filling my pockets, hardening on my shoes.
Nobody else is out in this weather
save for the occasional passing car.
shake the snow from my clothes
make my purchase
and turn back
only to be confronted
by my previous self
her solitary footprints
I see her transparently
which step she is taking
where she is heading
Time holds us apart
but the snow thinned
our linear illusions.
I pass her through
over and over
caught up in her ghost
all the way home.
soft, white, glitter cushioned
suspended in chill
bunnies, birds, even trees huddle
keeping their tiny inner fires lit.
as the air falls still
the stars shine sharper.
unalive, eternal outsiders,
the only things not muted
by the passing of a snowstorm.
Allow me to lessen the impact of the poem with kiddie art, haha. I’m trying to learn how to do digital art now. This is one of my first efforts. Brushes are fun.
Yesterday was my birthday. Since my birthday is a national holiday, quite a few people were allowed to stay home. Instead of working I chased my nephew and nieces around outside, sat in front of a fire, and had a nice dinner.
The kids had erected a steep five foot slide out of the snow, with no stairs. It was packed slick from many kid butts, so the only way to really use it was to throw yourself facefirst over the side wall and then slide down on your belly like a penguin. The kids managed to sled down it, go down on their knees, all kinds of tricks. I was just happy to be able to manage the penguin thing.
For my birthday present, I made my sister buy me cricket powder. Then we made cricket crackers (the cricket-eating community like to call these “chirps” instead of chips) and her whole family was forced to eat them with dinner. It was all that I could have asked for and more!
We learned that crickets taste odd. Very earthy. They’re little earth golems, so they taste like dirt, cocoa, mushrooms, strange buggy overtones, and the occasional tiny gravel crunch that makes you stop chewing and go… what part was that? All in all a very brown flavor.
I could get to like them. They’re healthy, sustainable, and a source of protein in many other cultures. But it’d take some training, some mental gymnastics, and a lot more cricket powder. It’s too expensive! And why should I work so hard to train myself to enjoy a food which would just further cull me from the herd?
Winter attempts an advance against fall. To one side of the road, a cold snowscape of white-laced grass, two-tone evergreens, ancient gnarled branches softly pillowed with marshmallow, a study in black and white. To the other, fresh grass scattered with the discards of the glowy orange maple, the radiant yellow fingers of the gumball tree, the startling neon red of the burning bushes. Winter is gaining ground against the bounteous color, blotting out the many-hued lawns with pure white primer, heaping icing on the trees’ heads. The trees, still warm and flexible, shake the wet snow from their glorious manes, spattering sidewalk and pedestrian alike with gobs of slush. Dripping sounds off from all sides, in full stereo. Splat. Splat-splat. It was not the sky, but the trees which rained.
Ever she dances
Nature’s unconscious graces
Embrace all conflict