it's a bittersweet symphony (this life)

or carousel at the carnival, horseback, eating

sticky pink fluff, sweet and insubstantial

all beautiful in the sunset

(but don't let the clowns catch you after dark)

and the sights and sounds of a month can swirl together

flavors of vanilla and chocolate and licorice (which i don't much like, the bitter smack of disappointment)

and how do you separate them all but by savouring the lingering flavour and distinguishing?

the swoop of dancing, a belled skirt twirling around my legs in a brush of silk

coy smile over my shoulder breaking into a laugh

(i can't be sexy to save my life)

the sensuous ridge of collarbone under my hand

crisp Dove-soap cotton against my cheek

and i lean there in the slow song, lingering in the warmth

and connection and rhythm

the little things, the birds chirping in the last crisp morning before the heat

sway of bluebonnets in wind, spoon slipping into creamy flesh of yogurt

dog grinning half-cocked, tongue out

the dreamy gleam in certain eyes when fiancees come to mind

the warm weight of a child asleep in my lap, silk hair falling over my arm,

rocking her and myself to sleep in a classroom nursery

the bitter chocolate emptiness of crying out until the makeup raccoons me

the heartache of decisions and wondering why i'm never quite good enough for you

and wondering, knowing you love me but not feeling it

frustration of people not listening or trying to understand

the flavours of life, the taste of change, the sound of heartbreak, the sight of sunset

mingle, tangle, struggle

white-robed glory and cloud-clothed pain kiss

and beneath it all the broken, steady heartbeat of love

Stuck

It's one of those days upon which I wish to write something touching, beautiful, profound -

but the words won't come out right.

Perhaps tomorrow. I cannot control the Muse.

Pure Sap Condensed In A Story

She stood at the edge of the park, back to a tree, fingers twisting the strap of her bag. She saw children traipsing about on scooters, eating ice cream, throwing mud at each other, clouds like sails billowing in the sky, a flurry of pigeon feathers. She heard the grackles squawking above, young shouts, giggles from the young couple entwined on the bench to her right.

The text from the unavailable number said to meet at ‘the usual haunt’. She knew what that meant, even if the usual died six years ago. It seemed impossible, that he was still alive. He’d been declared missing in action. Since he’d worked intelligence, she doubted it for a while, but so much later, she let hope fade. Even now, she tried to deny hope existence, but she couldn’t ignore its spark in the back of her mind.

They looked at each other in precisely the same moment, as if a puppetmaster turned their heads in synch. She felt her other senses dull. The tang of citronella bug spray faded, the background traffic died to white noise. He stood in the middle of the park. Open. Exposed. An unlikely tactical position for someone so well trained. Or perhaps that was the point, to give her a clear view of everything around him before moving in. He knew her shades of paranoia six years ago. They hadn’t changed. If anything, they’d darkened.

She stood there, barely breathing, taking him in. All six-feet and two-inches of lean muscle, creases around his eyes from laughter and loss, dark hair shaved close, sleeves rolled, chocolate eyes rich and swirling with all emotion he kept from his face.

He took a step towards her as she took two towards him. She didn’t want to believe her eyes. It couldn’t be real. She had to be ensconced in her bed, under the influence of Nyquil or something stronger. Another step. Two more. She found her breaths grounding, growing shallow. They stood arm’s-length away, in the centre of the park, the birds chirping and children shouting.

She surprised herself by finding her voice, or a remnant of it. “You – you can’t be real.”

“But I am,” he said.

His face was expressionless, the model of a poker player, but she could see the emotions roiling in his eyes. She looked him over once more. Black lace-up shoes, a pair of black jeans, an off-white dress shirt rolled past his elbows to reveal muscled forearms. The vine tattoo snaked around his left arm, ending at the wrist. No one could fake all the details like that. Brooke held one hand over her mouth. Her whisper shook. “I want to believe it.”

He held out his hand. She held her breath. She thought he might have swept her into a hug, at which she might have panicked. Would have. Physical touch spooked her these days. But no, one hand, palm up, steady, capable fingers tipped toward the sky. The same gesture she’d seem him make toward a dozen frightened horses, when they rode.

After a moment, she held out her hand the opposite way, palm down. She inched it forward, until the tips of their fingers touched. An electric shock buzzed through her arm, into her spine. She slid her fingers onto his, tiny and white against solid and tan. He closed his fingers gently around hers. Then she was leaning into his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, feeling the crisp linen of his shirt against her skin. It smelled right, clean and sharp, pine and cedar cologne.

“God, I missed you,” he said into her hair, voice rough.

She closed her eyes and wrapped both arms around his waist, feeling his encircle her back. “You have no idea,” she whispered.

Dancing fool

So, there was a blues dancing festival in town this weekend. Four days of social dancing, lessons, and more social dancing. I am exhausted. I don't think I was in bed until 5. This-morning-5-am. Latest I've ever stayed up. But goodness. It was so much fun, and included dancing with a Nathan-Fillion-look-alike (I need a Shamwow to mop up the drool here). I'll write a decent post later, I promise!

the other me

the one under my skin, the stranger has come to life, taking over and wreaking havoc before i knew i was no longer in control. the elusive one i know is in my chest but cannot find to kill, the one whose actions have me - real me (i think) - skipping church and slinging a red suitcase on the bed, listening to british pop (lyrics: wake me up/stop my fall). the one i hate for making me cry, the one whose existence i curse as i finger the flushed marks around my right knuckle. the one i want gone, forever, the one i plead with to just leave me along.

My Rectangles of the World

In Awe

http://www.tangerine-eater.com/2010/04/your-surrender-is-significant.html

Go read this, if you haven't. Go read it again, if you have. Especially given how many bloggers are female, this is so, so...perfect.

http://www.pinkapplecore.com/2010/04/broken-moon.html

This picture is just as perfect. Both the post above and this picture have pretty equal levels of perfection.

Love Bites (Or How It Should Have Happened)

The scientist watched his computer intently, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses with his index finger. The camera feed flickered before splashing across his screen in vibrant color. Pine trees swayed in the wind, needles falling to the ground. Today was the day, the proving day for his work.

On screen, the girl and the boy stood in the middle of the meadow. The breeze blew wisps of the girl's hair around her face, but her eyes remained fixed on the boy, as if she couldn't look away. He, likewise, gazed into her eyes, but retained more animation, raking his hands through his copper-colored hair.

The boy flung his hands down. "Don't you see? It's not safe for you to be around me."

The girl didn't blink, or form an expression of any kind. "It doesn't matter. We're in love."

The left side of the scientist's mouth curled up as the two gazed at each other a moment longer before kissing ravenously. It was a necessary side effect of the experiment.

The boy leaned back, hands up defensively, eyes glinting feverishly. "You don't understand. I could lose control at any moment and kill you."

"It doesn't matter. We're in love." She said this with the same inflection as before.

The boy frowned, creases appearing in his marble forehead. "The idea of a horrifically bloody death doesn't bother you?"

"It doesn't matter. We're in love."

The boy stared at her. She stared back, unblinking.

The scientist swore and began pounding his keyboard. She wasn't supposed to keep repeating the exact phrase, just the sentiment. How had he commanded that incorrectly? He'd programmed out the glitches. He knew he had. Who would have sabotaged this? He gave up and watched, head in hands, as the boy inched closer to the girl, pulling her hair away from her neck to expose the shining metal button at the base of her skull. Hands trembling, the boy pressed the board. Her head split open to reveal a mass of wiring and circuit boards.

The boy stepped back and fell to his knees, looking up at the sky. "Damn you, fiends! She was the only one I ever loved!" The clouds roiled, and thunder cracked as he began sobbing into his hands.

The scientist calmly took remote control of the girl, using a joystick to pivot her, glassy-eyed, so she was facing the boy's back. He pressed a key, and her hand fell off, revealing a sharpened fence post. He smiled, and he pushed the red button on the joystick. The stake shot from the girl's hand and through the boy's back, into his heart. He collapsed, soundlessly, before shriveling into a pile of ash. There was no blood.

The robot blinked as he released it from the remote control. She glanced around, looked at the ground, and saw the ash, and the stake. In the same place, she collapsed, sobbing. "Edward! No! What have I done? I loved you!"

The scientist touched her face on the screen. "I'm sorry, Isabella. It had to be this way." Laughing to himself, he turned in his chair and stood as the head of the department came in.

"Excellent work, Dr. Van Helsing," the woman said. She handed him a tablet PC. "We just need your signature to release certain details of your experiment to the public."

Dr. Van Helsing grinned, and signed. "Certainly, Dr. Meyers. Feel free to embellish to your heart's content."