A Poem
I wish I could say how it feels
To have the house pressing down
Like a mountain moved to the chest
Stopping breath

And in the corners of my eyes pushing
Obscure and dense and unstoppable
When you want to cry in your room
But don’t have the time

I wish poetry was like magnets that tumble perfectly into place
And hold themselves up
Instead of falling apart

A Fantasy Mind (Word picked at random from dictionary, because otherwise I’m already writing my entry)
A mind may be a terrible thing to waste, but when any part of it that’s damaged can be recreated, it’s easy to stop worrying about that sort of thing. It’s sort of funny, too, that philosophers have been debating the existence of minds for centuries, but I’m the first one to be able to confirm that I have one. That’s right, me. And the reason I can say for sure is that it’s fantastically awesome. Well, no, I’m kidding. The real reason is that I made it up. Just like you might have made a story up when you were a little kid, I made a mind up when I was bored one afternoon. Sometimes I carry it around with me on a leash, if I feel like getting attention.

A character sketch of a depressed, thirty-year-old woman using words of one syllable.
There is a line and two three four, but not the count in for a song, on her face – in her face – for good and true. She needs the nail of her thumb to trace them each day to tell who she is. What she is. She thinks with the trace. She gets lost falls hits/lands. Old I guess but not much more than me. Sad I think but what is sad at three tens? So much to come, so much, she stares at the glass and frowns, lines one two three four five show on her face.

Windows
We all view the world through our windows. The best people have the best, largest, most open windows – maybe even the kind that stick out from the house a little and have a nice place inside to sit and have only glass on three sides. The size of windows tends to decrease from there down the line – the smaller your house and your situation, the smaller your windows. Some windows have bars over them, some have latticework, some have curtains. Some even have blinds.

Speakerbox
During the summer, we dance without eyes. The nights are dark – moonless or cloudy – and we go to the parks or into the woods and we bring stereos along. We have our tapes with us. We’ve pored over these cassettes, homemade edits and splices of sound and delight. We know the sequencing by blood, how to best merge each stereo’s idiosyncrasies into a wondrous spiraling tower of sound. And so we dance.
We dance for joy and darkness and night. We pulse with the rhythm, we glide in the black. We vibrate in tune to the air.
It’s supernatural delight.

Word of the Day: Dessicant
Dessicant is a word that belongs in a fantasy novel, as some unseen villain who threatens to destroy all of the green, beautiful creation that forms a mystical land. It has the right harshness, the correct hisses – I’m befuddled as to why it hasn’t been used before. Or maybe it has and I just haven’t heard of it.
* * * * *
Well, done with catching up. Today, now.
Things I’ve Learnt
1. I can come up with about three passable ideas per time I sit down to write. More is pushing it, pushing it very hard.
2. Sometimes I can succeed in pushing it.
3. More often I cannot.
4. When I cannot, it’s usually better to stop and give things a rest and try again the next day.
5. For once, I’m going to act on these things I have learned.

True Love Waits
It was raining as the princess stared out her tower window over the melting countryside (enchanted forests and sweeping fields) waiting for her prince, her knight, to return from the factory. It was past midnight, and a frown began to distort her perfect, utterly unscarred and unblemished and unbirthmarked face. It was a good thing she hadn’t worn the pumpkin coach ensemble tonight, she thought and snorted. But gracefully – a butterfly could not have snorted more delicately, Venus herself could not have been more seductive. Gracefully, she turned to the window, leaning to the right so she could see past the bushes to the driveway. Her golden hair rested on the chair beside her, a precious metal ladder for her one-and-only. The princess saw headlights, heard a motor, and her heart beat (pitter-patter) inside her breast. The back door slammed shut and a voice called, gruffly.

A break: what happened excitingly today?
There are constellations at my fingertips because we said Yes when forty-five minutes ago me and John and Mike were walking Mike asked if we wanted to get high. So we walked off the sidewalk and over behind the school, around the new wing and into a nook between the dumpsters. And Mike pulled out his pipe (which gleamed purple glassish in the dim light) and did something with it that I couldn’t see. And then he inhaled from it, strangely, and so did John and then I somewhat awkwardly took the pipe and stared at it and wondered what to do.
“Put your finger over the hole on the side, right there, and then inhale. And then let go your finger and the smoke’ll shoot into your lungs.”
“And hold it. As long as you can,” added Mike.
And I did, and now my fingertips sparkle with stars and designs and planets, too, when I hold them up the sky. There are worlds in my eyes.
* * * * *
Heart Attack
Parapsychology, the scientific study of paranormal phenomena, tells us that the cause of physical ailments is all too often something ethereal. The next time you clutch your chest with your good arm – the one that hasn’t gone numb at your side just when you needed it most for clutching – it may be your diet or your laziness or your genes. But it’s just as likely to be someone slurping up your drives and emotions through some psychic straw. So watch out, but don’t expect your five senses to be enough.
* * * * *
Count on Me
A: Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs.
Q: What is “irony”?