Perspective
Every week when I clean out his bowl, my fish, Sashimi, thinks he's been abducted by aliens.
oblong thoughts from an anomalous mind
Every week when I clean out his bowl, my fish, Sashimi, thinks he's been abducted by aliens.
So. I have a big old time-wasting challenge for you, dear readers. Get from here to here by clicking on ten links. Hint: zombies.
I once ranted against love and ridiculed what fools it made of girls. I saw only the irrational pursuit of approval from the opposite sex and considered myself above such nonsense. I alone possessed impartiality, I alone saw through the games, I alone would be content alone forever. So I thought, and so I said to all who would listen, but those who listened were few. So I lived without loving, and told myself I was content, denying that I even had a heart, crushing it under the weight of the loneliness to which I had proudly condemned myself. I lay in the dark and watched the silent drama of shadows cast through the windowpane accompanied by the ticking of the clock. In the silence shining between each tick, my heart began to make itself known, growing heavy, wearied by its burden. A single selfish tear escaped under cover of darkness. And so I slept for years, suffocated by this exile I chose. Small wonder I felt unloved-I had made myself so unlovely that it took 18 years for an intrepid soul with a great living beast of a heart to catch a slight, living glimmer beneath the ice, made thin by the summer sun after a long winter alone. Slowly, he ventured close enough to melt the ice and set me free of myself. I love him. I am so deep in love that's all I can think. I wake up and I love him, climb out of bed and I love him, get dressed and I love him, eat breakfast, walk to class, sit down and I love him. My notebook is peppered with it- "Today is the ninth of February and I am in love", "Today is the tenth of February and I am in love". I even looked down and blushed to find that I had scrawled an unfamiliar signature in the margin- not my name, but his. Love has made such a beautiful fool of me, and I would have it no other way.
Recital week is always crazy. Don't ask why I chose now, of all times, to update this beknighted blog. Dodging work, that's what it is. I have 13 pdfs that need reading opened in other tabs, but, at this rate, opening them is likely as far as I'll get with them before I have to run off to class. I have decided that I'll be living at home again next year. Much as I like the girls here at Trinity, practically, I am only actually here a very very small percentage of my time; in fact, Wednesdays are the only day I don't have to drive over to the studio for a couple hours. Since I am planning on making myself available for Narnia in the fall, (no, I haven't been offered a role yet), it most likely won't be much different next year. Plus, the parentals have said that the cash will make an epic family Europe trip a definite possibility next summer. It'll be sweet. This summer promises to be pretty sweet, too, what with boyfriendery and associated friends with whom to drive around and do fun stuff, when I'm not working and getting cash money. I don't know when I'll be able to fit work in next year. At the mo, I'm working Saturdays, but with Narnia on the weekends, it's a worry. Plenty of time to work that out, though.
Does anyone else find it odd, living inside a beautifully functional bag of meat and bones and nerves and skin? Hands, fingernails, nostrils, molded by the hand of God. Long bones draped artfully with muscle and tendon, wrapped up tight under skin. This machine through which we experience these four dimensions is a wonderous contraption, whatever you may think of its outward form. For example, my body told me that it was dehydrated the other day by manipulating nerve endings, sending a message which manifested itself as a headache. I drank a couple bottles of water and hey, presto, the alarms stopped jangling and I felt fine. Yesterday I pushed it beyond what was safe, so today all sorts of alarm bells are blaring, discouraging me from taking any more risks while it repairs and reinforces the damaged areas. Working my way from the top down, we have four-inch diameter bruises (from improv) on both shoulders, sore glutes and quads (possibly from fencing), with an extra painful strand of muscle in my right-hand thigh. Sore calves, of course, plus a twisted (or sprained or tweaked or something) left ankle (from pirouettes in ballet). Nothing life-threatening, but not pleasant. On the other hand, the sophistication of this flesh boggles the mind, as I stretch it and tear it and bruise it and mistreat it and fill it with ice cream, train it and dress it, bathe it and ultimately, through all this, I take as my goal to use this wonderous gift for its Maker's glory.
For some reason, I find texting to be the ideal form of communication for my particular brand of social ineptitude roughly 90 percent of the time. It carries the immediacy of a phone call, a gentle prodding ring instantly in the recipient's pocket, and yet it is less demanding, allowing the aforementioned recipient to reply at their leisure. Plus, one can communicate effectively without the whole "conversation" nonsense that you have to go through before you can get to the meat of why you are bothering them in the first place.
The rain began to slow, the downpour becoming a mere trickle in the corner of the heavens' eye. The sky drew a breath, deep but jagged, as through a throat still constricted with the nearness of tears, and began to feel better. The trees shook in the resulting wind, dripping in imitation of the clouds above which had previously hung so heavy, the clouds whose aloof indifference to gravity's hunger had snapped in a torrential tantrum, beating the earth with soggy fists until the grass began to lose its tight grip on its beloved soil and the streets grew slick with mud. Bitter tears lay cooling, collecting in hollow places, filling uneven sidewalks until they were perfectly level. The more ambitious among them streaked along the pavement together, unmindful of traffic laws, producing rivulets with their own short-lived dreams of riverhood. The clouds were exhausted, with no more tears to sacrifice to the greedy earth, and the sky sulked like a child, having done as it was told, yet unwilling to concede defeat. Another gust of sobbing breath, carrying the threat of more tears, but this February tantrum had run its course. The sky began to collect its solemn gray dignity, breathing deeply, still obstinately unwilling to allow the sun to begin the work of drying up the mess. Frankly, the whole affair was a little embarrassing.