Sunday, March 28, 2010


My apartment is located close to an air field. This is problematic for me as I am unreasonably afraid of airplanes and almost everything about them. Recently, local air men have taken it upon themselves to fly over my frail sleeping body in odd hours of the night, which of course leads me to wake up screaming and hysterically calling my husband to tell him that I am going to hide in the closet until the worst of the attack is over. There is nothing worse that waking up believing that the horrible roar you just heard was a bomber scoping out the area and about to make another pass to drop large explosive devices on your head. I have a theory that the planes that fly over my town are actually the enemy (which one I am not sure) and they are just desensitizing us to the noises of their airplanes so that when the time comes that they are actually going to bomb us, we will be docile.

In an other semi-related thought, I cant help but feel waves of dread wash over me whenever I hear one of those evil air machines. I perk my ears whenever I hear the faintest sound of a plane engine, and I prepare myself for the inescapable doom it is sure to bring. All of the doomsday and end of the world fuss has finally reached my brain and is telling me that some catastrophic event is sure to take place any minute now, and I will definitely die. My husband says "People have thought the world would end for centuries now, everyone thought that their generation would be the last." A somewhat valid point, but it doesn't clear up all of my concerns. I look at it like the boy who cried wolf. Sure, the first couple times the boy was just having laugh, but in the end there really was a wolf and everyone died.

I am constantly having dreams that I am watching a large bomb go off and running futilely for my life. Or dreams about the world being blown to pieces and I cant to do anything to stop it. Or the moon being much too large in a blood red sky filled with stars I shouldn't be able to see. Bad sky dreams. Hiding in a cellar dreams. Watching my family starve and die slowly.

I play out nightmarish scenarios in my head, preparing myself for that inevitable day. I add up how long I could last in my apartment if I was cut off, when I would have to start to eat my aquarium fish. What I would defend myself with if mobs ran through the city looting. I know a lot of people who would just off themselves if came right down to it, and I know that I would be able to do that. I can only hope that, if any of my dreams come true, I will be one of the first to go.

Now apart from this telling me that I probably need to have many hours of therapy, it also says that I may watch too much TV.

Friday, March 26, 2010


The rain casually beat the yellow flowers into a dull submission with its silvery drops. The flowers, bending low to their new master, idly thought that there was nothing better to do. There was, after all, nothing interesting about being a flower. Constant molestation by bees and the forces of nature eternally tampering with their extremely fragile bodies largely dulled a flowers senses. Im not saying that flowers are the dummies of the plant world*, but most would agree that despite their bright colors, flowers are extraordinarily boring.
And so the solitary and slighty speckled sparrow sat ponderously blowing silver smoke from a fat cigar, watching the unspeakable violence acted against those underwhelmingly dull, dripping daisies.

*It is widely believed that grass and certain types of brush are genetically incapable of having a very high intelligence

Thursday, March 25, 2010


I find that my writing voice is different than my speaking voice. It seems that, in writing, my words leisurely wander in and out of delicate descriptions. Slithering calmly throughout the verbs and adjectives, creating rather long winded sentences. I feel my tongue writhe behind my lips in ecstasy, tenderly tasting each tantalizing letter on the tip of my tongue. Much like eyes dancing behind lids while dreaming, my mouth visualizes each word before letting them bleed onto the page. Brain like a hurricane, blowing through and around my thoughts and then gingerly placing them in an order that allows the mouth to understand. My speaking voice leaves much to be desired. Often too quiet, it only omits rather jumbled thoughts that require the listener to pause and decipher what was said before giving a somewhat appropriate response. Thusly, I often choose to remain silent if I can help it.

As the wind shook the trees and passed her cool hand though my hair, I thought of the element that held so much power and yet could not be seen. I drew my breaths with the rise and fall of her rhythm, felt her tug and pull at me, watched her pick up dust only to spread it again in a a place she thinks it more appropriate. Her invisible hands take the trash we put on her sister and blow it back in our faces. I watched as plastic bags and newspapers plastered a chain link fence.

I think I'm writing a story in my new red notebook. I dont think I will be sure until I'm finished.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


And here the daydreaming girl sits, musing upon what to write about in her newly created archive.

"Painting is just another way of keeping a diary."
-Pablo Picasso

And so it begins.