Jumping, both feet first, for no apparent reason, in stompy high-tops reminds me of anandabrat. I don’t think I’d be who I am without you. Thank you.

Current music: Counting Crows —Recovering the Satellites

Thanks to elliotpp for finding me a picture to study from for some of the shoulder position.

Talking with rising_dawn like today is good for my sanity.

My favorite memory of being alone is waiting for the bus, opposite that dark road, sitting under the streetlight at the bench, with a two-lane road running into the distance on either side, and seeing nobody. The bus won’t come for another thirty minutes — I missed the previous one, but I have nowhere to be, no schedule to keep. I have a song stuck in my head, and I spent ten minutes just dancing on the yellow line. I always associate pavement with busy streets, so the chance to just dance on it makes me laugh, and to dance like nobody’s watching is the best.

Smells are the root of all of my memories. I go to choose tea for tonight, and the smell of each is a thousand memories. Hibiscus makes me think of Robyn, the Lapsang of rainy nights so many times past. Ceylon of Carrie and of Jem. Sour cherry of Noam, and the cheap green tea of speeding over choppy sea with Vruba on the way to go to Seattle.

My best and worst memories all involve rain.

Tonight, walking through town, I step up to the road and see the salmon pink of the street light reflecting on wet pavement. Instantly, I am eighteen again, standing alone on the side of a wet roadside in an unfamiliar city, the same canvas bag hanging on my shoulder, and I look off into the dark distance, and I am not sure where I am going. I am sure I’m on the right road, but the night is blacker than most I have seen in my life, the heavy clouds obscuring the stars, and the trees obscuring any light but the one, cold streetlamp.

I was a scared, unsure boy at that moment, for the first time out on my own, together and then again suddenly apart from my first lovers, the wound so fresh it loosk as if it will never heal. The yellow line of the road stretches off in the distance, a lone pair of headlights stare at me from afar, and I trudge off in the direction I know is right, but unsure how far I have to walk. I pass shops, closed for the night, but the lights glowing dimly inside reminding those that pass of the daytime life that inhabits them. I am the only one passing at this time of night — owners and patrons alike are long since shut away in their houses. I may never see these shops by daylight. To me, they will always remain ethereal ghosts, reminding me that I was not a native to that place.

I realize that for my transportation back in time, I am now in this moment as the girl I always was. My life makes more sense now, I have a sense of belonging to my being, and I don’t feel as if I am watching myself from outside this time. Maybe tonight will be the more real memory, pushing out the events that happened years ago.

I cross the street, trying to shake the feeling of being new and alone, trying to regain the comfort that is walking home along the same path I always take. The new pavement, completely unworn, and the far too black road don’t help me feel any closer to here and now. I walk onward. My street, too, like that street long ago is black. No streetlights, no cars. I hear water running into new storm-drains, and this time I remember a Thanksgiving night nearly a half decade ago, bicycling home through heavy rain, watching traffic signals change from blue-green to red and back again as I ignore them — as everyone ignores them, being inside, and I, alone on the road with not a single living being watching me pass. I come home, and the house is still musty, hotter than the cool, damp air outside. Tonight, too, it’s musty — though this is the smell of cat kept indoors for days of rain, not the everpresent must of a damp climate.

1. A digital camera,
2. a decent skirt,
3. massive amounts of chocolate,a huge hoodie,
4. a better bow,
5. some Speedball C-5 pens.

Find, on any peer to peer file sharing network, any piece of music by Johannes Pachelbel that isn’t “Canon in D”. Find anything by Deep Blue Something that isn’t “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. Find any classical suite properly attributed and complete. Double points if at an acceptable bitrate.

Today’s recipe is for all you who have never been to France. I’ve never been to France, so today, it’s for me.

Cube three medium turnips and one fennel bulb. Add some of the fennel fronds. Steam until tender. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, optionally tarragon, and some balsamic vinegar.

Practice for later pictures

taivas says “I guess “exhiliaration” would be the word I was trying to think of.”

Aredridel says “I love that word.”

Aredridel says “Though I can’t spell it either without much thought.”

taivas says “Yep.”

taivas says “The “xh” makes it almost…kinky.”

Here is a difficult and possibly upsetting question for everyone.

Why is it actually a bad thing to cut oneself?

Power outage = suck

Camping ≠ suck

Today was the last day I have of freedom to work alone for a while. Tomorrow, my father joins me and we start kicking butt team style.

I’m gonna miss it, though.