I blow up an image to 800 percent, focus on the detail I wish, reach to touch the cool hard screen. I stroke your face. Your eyes look into mine. Positively cinematic, that gesture. I'm sure it's been done. The image is the one with the herringbone pattern like rough stitches on your forehead which you insisted was nothing, your hair. I'm not convinced. That image is off. Especially compared with another one, in which you also don't look happy (not that that's the quality I'm actually seeking in a snapshot of you), but more youthful, in better shape. And it's a later photo.
Roughly how it's going with me. I look better now than I did several years ago. Tried on jeans today. I'm a good two sizes smaller. (Will go back with coupon to buy.) I didn't look horrible in the dressing room mirror. That's saying something. If I didn't like rosé so much I'm sure my midriff would be leaner. There is something to be said for abusing pharmaceuticals. No calories, I presume. I don't smoke pot. Bad for my figure. I get the munchies.
Missing you. But not going off the deep end again, or trying not to. It's April after all. Lilacs are within reach and a few minutes ago I buried my nose in the blooms and inhaled deeply. Time stood still.
Storms gather in her head some days. I haven't said enough how much I love this song. Allison Moorer, "Broken Bird." La la la la la la la la la la la la la
How'd she get so blue
What broke her in too many pieces?
Mash with "When The Time Comes," ready with the big guns... must look up who does that song - you'd think I'd have that memorized by now - kind of like the bad way I was about memorizing the arcaneries of point vs. lateral public access and easement rules blah blah blah la la la la la la
Oh honey, you probably think I'm drunk as a skunk and I'm actually not. It's just an overcast day, it's the gloaming now at quarter to 7 but not in the magical way, because it's been gloaming or maybe gloomy all day...
Just in a liquidy mood, reflecting the grey sky. Ruth Reichl broke her foot (I check in on her tweets). Wow, that sucks. Had to cut short her book tour, just like that. No schadenfreude on my part here, for sure - I figure her to be someone pretty opposite to myself, who could always make lemons out of lemonade, or at least had a really good grip on how to be, or if not how to be, at least pretend how to be, or appear how to be...
I see that Mr. NFS has those beautiful ceramic pots that I'd glimpsed in his kitchen that weird & wonderful December morning sitting on his front porch. The time I was there there was a carton of bulbs that had arrived in the mail...
Please forgive me this rambling post, my love.
(Note to Jarrice, re: musical diversity - thanks for playing a song by a Polish female artist - I really enjoyed that!)
I'm workin' on a dream
And sometimes it feels so far away