{I did eventually pick up the umbrella from yesterday.
It would be my luck for one of the metal spokes to pierce one of the Bitch Pod's tires, and not even my creativity is worth that, especially considering that the Pod has a size of tires that's virtually non-existent (read: expensive).
I didn't have the heart to fully throw it in the rubbish bin, though - it now resides under my stairs in a garbage can I never use.
I think it will be most happy there. Especially since the rain will still hit it and it will feel like it's not completely handicapped in nature.}
Sad little umbrella ...
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Sundays in the country.
Just around the bend,
is a place of truest love -
my home, sweet sweet home.
Surrounded by countryside,
it is the one place I'm me.
Lately, the strife in my life has made going home sweet home all the more sweet.
It's nice knowing I can go there and let the guard no one ever gets to see down, down.
Today was just one of those perfect days.
The sun was blinding as it reflected off the pond, as it dried my clothes out on the line, as it blasted into the orange kitchen brilliantly.
The wine, music, laughter and food were great (as always), and knowing I am loved unconditionally is a hell of a pick-me-up.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Sad little umbrella.
Couldn't stop thinking about that twirling umbrella last night.
When I put up my bedroom shades this a.m., I wondered what became of it.
Lo and behold, it came to rest just at the end of my landlord's driveway!
It was almost as if it had been waiting for me to take the picture I so wanted to last night.
It now lays mangled in the street, but I don't have the heart to rescue it. Putting it in the trash seems so much more unpoetic than letting it be a splash of various teals against the concrete street.
I think it would have wanted to go out like a martyr for umbrelladom. I'm comforted knowing I saw it have its last dance in the wind last night. Like we shared something. I can learn a lot from that old accessory.
Broken old umbrella,
no use for you anymore -
who will protect you?
When I put up my bedroom shades this a.m., I wondered what became of it.
Lo and behold, it came to rest just at the end of my landlord's driveway!
It was almost as if it had been waiting for me to take the picture I so wanted to last night.
It now lays mangled in the street, but I don't have the heart to rescue it. Putting it in the trash seems so much more unpoetic than letting it be a splash of various teals against the concrete street.
I think it would have wanted to go out like a martyr for umbrelladom. I'm comforted knowing I saw it have its last dance in the wind last night. Like we shared something. I can learn a lot from that old accessory.
Broken old umbrella,
no use for you anymore -
who will protect you?
Friday, April 3, 2009
Ramblings on rambles on.
Sitting here deliciously half blitzed from two vodka-heavy martinis.
I love how I get that teeny bit lit and all of a sudden I feel like Doing Things.
Like organizing my home desk at last. And making my calendar kosher with my day planner, which I just updated yesterday. Never mind that I never look at said planner because I fully believe in the sticky system and/or e-mailing myself reminders, but I will feel more Efficient if I do so.
Switching Gears
It is so windy here in Northeastern Pa. tonight.
It was a crazy day of darkness, sunlight, pouring rain, misty rain and wind on and off. Seeing such black black skies against sunlight made me think it was the end of the world or something.
The house was rattling so much before that I cautiously peeked out through the blinds to see if houses were flying about.
Instead I saw something gorgeous: an abandoned umbrella dancing in the wind.
It was like that plastic bag that the creepy hot kid next door in "American Beauty" filmed.
If I felt like putting my galoshes back on, I would have gone out and taken video of it to share.
Instead, use your imagination.
Switching Gears
Sometimes I get so angry I just want to scream.
Or break a pencil, if I used pencils and not solely blue PaperMate pens.
I chalk it up to being Sicilian. Or psycho. I'll go with the former, thank you kindly.
Switching Gears
Sometimes I think I'll never get it together - then I remember that nobody has their shit together. And if they do, they're a God damn liar. That's comforting.
Switching Gears
It's safe to say that I think about food way too much, and exercise way to little for how much I like to eat.
Switching Gears
I hate being an insomniac. The worst part is I just lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, instead of getting up and reading or writing.
OK, now about that calendar project.
It's an Anne Taintor joint.
I shall leave you with April's fitting quip, as I got blonder just last night.
I love how I get that teeny bit lit and all of a sudden I feel like Doing Things.
Like organizing my home desk at last. And making my calendar kosher with my day planner, which I just updated yesterday. Never mind that I never look at said planner because I fully believe in the sticky system and/or e-mailing myself reminders, but I will feel more Efficient if I do so.
Switching Gears
It is so windy here in Northeastern Pa. tonight.
It was a crazy day of darkness, sunlight, pouring rain, misty rain and wind on and off. Seeing such black black skies against sunlight made me think it was the end of the world or something.
The house was rattling so much before that I cautiously peeked out through the blinds to see if houses were flying about.
Instead I saw something gorgeous: an abandoned umbrella dancing in the wind.
It was like that plastic bag that the creepy hot kid next door in "American Beauty" filmed.
If I felt like putting my galoshes back on, I would have gone out and taken video of it to share.
Instead, use your imagination.
Switching Gears
Sometimes I get so angry I just want to scream.
Or break a pencil, if I used pencils and not solely blue PaperMate pens.
I chalk it up to being Sicilian. Or psycho. I'll go with the former, thank you kindly.
Switching Gears
Sometimes I think I'll never get it together - then I remember that nobody has their shit together. And if they do, they're a God damn liar. That's comforting.
Switching Gears
It's safe to say that I think about food way too much, and exercise way to little for how much I like to eat.
Switching Gears
I hate being an insomniac. The worst part is I just lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, instead of getting up and reading or writing.
OK, now about that calendar project.
It's an Anne Taintor joint.
I shall leave you with April's fitting quip, as I got blonder just last night.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Num num.
Rice pudding.
Lots of cinnamon.
Fresh ripe strawberries.
Whipped cream.
Such good combination I licked the bowl.
{and I'd do it again if that wasn't the last damn rice pudding cup!}
Lots of cinnamon.
Fresh ripe strawberries.
Whipped cream.
Such good combination I licked the bowl.
{and I'd do it again if that wasn't the last damn rice pudding cup!}
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sane person of a solitary nature.
"She talked to herself often, a habit of sane persons of a solitary nature."
~~ Truman Capote
Once, when I was a young Nikki, my father walked past my bedroom and heard the chattering of many voices.
He asked Mom if I had friends over and she shook her head, to which he then inquired who the hell was in my room with me, concerned about his precious youngest child.
“It’s just her playing with her Barbies,” Mom answered, proud that her daughter was so brilliantly imaginative and creative.*
Puzzled, my dad peeked in on me, and sure enough there I was happy as a clam in my imagination. I always gave my toys different voices as I played, and I could sit there for hours concocting story lines for them.
I guess you could say that I was talking to myself - something I still do, which I realized the other morning as I blabbered on about the strawberries I was cutting for my cereal.
{Blogger's clarification: I live alone. And I love - live even - to talk.}
I've always been able to entertain myself, be it lose myself in a book, my journal or just my imagination.
Is that weird? I'd like to think not - well maybe just a little. But I guess all creative people are a bit daft ...
*This is by no means an assumption ... my darling mother has admitted such on several occasions ... and not all of them were at my insisting at gunpoint.
~~ Truman Capote
Once, when I was a young Nikki, my father walked past my bedroom and heard the chattering of many voices.
He asked Mom if I had friends over and she shook her head, to which he then inquired who the hell was in my room with me, concerned about his precious youngest child.
“It’s just her playing with her Barbies,” Mom answered, proud that her daughter was so brilliantly imaginative and creative.*
Puzzled, my dad peeked in on me, and sure enough there I was happy as a clam in my imagination. I always gave my toys different voices as I played, and I could sit there for hours concocting story lines for them.
I guess you could say that I was talking to myself - something I still do, which I realized the other morning as I blabbered on about the strawberries I was cutting for my cereal.
{Blogger's clarification: I live alone. And I love - live even - to talk.}
I've always been able to entertain myself, be it lose myself in a book, my journal or just my imagination.
Is that weird? I'd like to think not - well maybe just a little. But I guess all creative people are a bit daft ...
*This is by no means an assumption ... my darling mother has admitted such on several occasions ... and not all of them were at my insisting at gunpoint.
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