Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Neath

The me you see strains to snare the incubus threading the needle between Scylla and Charybdis.  
In time, it shall moan a song of isolato.
Scaling, adrift, a courier of bones on which skin has no home.   

Bring her the ganglion of love.  

The sibylline hours before the twain shall meet, when the gods themselves quiver among the esoteric rain- the afterbirth of all that which eluded their hearts, only millimeters proud above the salt of creation.  

Wander, the brave.  Savor, the night.  

From her palm is born Elysium, smelling of nag champa, room only for two.  

She offers it freely.  

To one alone.  

Fingers uncurled for one alone. 

Take me.
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Wednesday, May 22, 2013

In Which I Discuss My Absence


I had a baby.  See, look------>

Okay, okay.  The truth.  The truth is that I wrote a comment on someone's blog post a while back about how I never wanted kids, I will never understand why people my age are having babies, and that the baby aisle at Wal-Mart makes me break out in hives.  

And then. 

My son fell in love with a pregnant girl.  And then she had her baby.  And my son fell in love with the baby, too.  

And then.  Well.  He brought them home.  To live with us.  In our home.  And then I fell in love with the baby.  And Chris fell in love with the baby.

And between the 7 folks living in my 1800 sq. foot home, we are all tag-teaming baby duties while her Little Mama finishes her last few weeks of high school and my sweet little monkey begins his summer semester 8-week classes.  

Needless to say.  Controlled chaos has ensued.  

Oh.  And we are still in the process of getting our house ready to sell.  Following our original plan, it should be on the market in 10 days.  

Excuse me while I piss myself laughing.  

So you will have to excuse me while I am swept up in the glittering hurricane that is my life.  My writerly self has fled and is replaced by my shitty-diaper-changing, baby tummy raspberrying, kitchen-tiling, shutter-painting, front garden-sprucing glittering hurricane.  

Becoming a famous writer has sort of moved down my bucket list of late.  I know this is unacceptable.  I know my Feed Demon is demanding I pay some attention to some fantastic people I have met through this blog.  I know my paycheck job is sitting to the side at this very moment as I write this.  

Fear not.  I shall return.  Bigger.  Brighter.  And whiter than snow.  I will scream at the make believe, scream at the sky.  And I'll finally find all my courage to let it all go.  *wink*

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