11/01 Direct Link

I watch them, going about their day. Overheard snatches of conversation, about work and their private lives. Dramas of other people. Things they believe bring meaning to their lives. They are unaware of my detached dissection.

In my cone of silence I exist outside their world. I find no meaning in this work. Much of the time there is no work to speak of, and I find myself merely looking busy. I get paid for this. Not a lot, mind you, but paid none-the-less. Sometimes I loathe them and their small lives. Maybe because it reminds me of my own.

11/02 Direct Link

We sit in the crowded restaurant, sharing a simple lunch of celebration. Raising our voices above the din, we discuss the events of the morning; at ease now that the anticipation is over. This will not be an end to it. There are four more to come, and after that, many processes to navigate. We are on our way. He is confident and smiling. My son. My proudest achievement.

I walk with him through this time of change, and do all that I can do to bring him through unscathed. I walk with him until he must venture forth alone.

11/03 Direct Link

I can’t find the comfortable spot; that coveted place where the body sighs with gratitude and begins to let go of the day. Covers tangle and clothing twists. I kick at the sheets, but they remain bunched and unyielding. Even my pillows refuse to mould to the shape upon which we have always agreed. My neck aches and my head starts to pound. I try to force sleep but it will not come. Soon I will have to give in and get up. It’s four am; I am wide awake, and annoyed. I have to be at work by nine.

11/04 Direct Link

I am only pretending to listen. I nod and smile as she bestows her vast and oft’ repeated wisdom upon me. I smile, but for the entire time that she is talking, I am thinking about pressing her pinched face against the glass plate of the photocopy machine. I imagine holding down the lid with her face squashed inside the machine. I hit the big, green "go" button, then stand back and watch the paper spill out into the tray. Page after page of glorious A4 colour, all documenting the slow transition from shock to rage.

She is still talking.

11/05 Direct Link

I see it reflected in the open bedroom door; the door that I have left ajar for precisely this reason. It is far quieter than the beast it replaces, arriving without warning and sneaking up on me with stealth and silence. This shiny, new car reminds me who is in control here, jarring me from my reverie and slapping me in the face with brutal reality. I utter the familiar words that we both dread. We grasp at the final seconds like straws, filling them with frantic assurances, heartfelt declarations and whispered goodbyes. Our time is over for another day.

11/06 Direct Link

So much of life is waiting. Waiting in line. Waiting for that call. Waiting for a lover. Waiting for change. Here I am, sitting in my fake, plastic chair again. In the garden beyond my window the sun is shining and the sky is a glorious, clear blue, but I want none of it. I am waiting for him. The one who gets me through each day. The one who makes me smile.  The one who holds my hand in his and trudges through this world with me, no matter how dark it gets, or how hopeless we often feel.

11/07 Direct Link

She is plump and softly dimpled; a truly Rubenesque delight. Her generous curves invite me, and as I contemplate the touch of her tender flesh, the spreading blush upon her skin mirrors my own. Supple and firm, she is unyielding beneath my fingertips. I marvel at her perfect beauty. She smells of warm sunshine and her downy skin feels strange against my lips. For one brief, delicious moment she resists my lover’s bite, and then she surrenders. She is helpless in my hands. Her nectar is delicate and sweet upon my tongue, just as I knew my peach would be.

11/08 Direct Link

It has been raining all morning and the roads are slick and dangerous. The silence is shattered by the telephone. A friend, with a newly acquired licence, invites young master out. Instantly my brain conjures horrifying images of inexperienced drivers on wet roads. He comes to me to ask my permission. He hasn’t quite realised that he doesn’t need it anymore. Everything in me wants to take advantage of that now and say no, but I know that I can’t. I must not infect him with my fears. I watch him leave. Sometimes being a parent is a horrible job.

11/09 Direct Link
The violence of the storm subsides, and with it the discontented rumbling and stark illumination. I lie awake, listening to the fat splatter of the rain on the leaves outside my window. Temporary rivers dwindle and dirt drains away, revealing the naked beauty of the earth. When I leave tomorrow, I will step over the scattered reminders of the night. Leaves will float in puddles that begin to dry in the morning sunshine, and yesterday’s news, caught in the current, will be carried away. The storm has passed. All that is left behind is the soothing lullaby of the rain.
11/10 Direct Link

It’s 1:00 am and you’re not here. That wouldn’t be so unusual but for the fact that I have not seen you all day. It’s now been almost twenty four hours since we fell asleep together. You went out somewhere unexpectedly; you didn’t tell me where, only that you were going and you would try to get to me as soon as you could. Surely by now you must be home .. unless something terrible has happened. You know that I worry, yet you didn’t get word to me. I don’t know what this means, but I don’t like it.

11/11 Direct Link
It was a standoff; me with my half-drunk coffee at one end of the room, and him with his eight long legs at the other. I was trapped. He was between me and the door, and he was gearing up for a second charge. I did the only thing I could do. With coffee in hand, I climbed onto my bed, over my clothes and with all the stunning agility and grace of a lumbering bear, I leapt off the bed. Mistake number two. I hit the floor and promptly spilled my coffee all over myself!
11/12 Direct Link
Today I stayed in my pajamas all day. I lazed around, drinking coffee, browsing the Internet and watching Ghost Hunters, The Klinge Brothers and assorted other things on YouTube. There are few things more wonderful in this world than to have a chunk of time, no matter how small, handed to you to do with precisely what you want - and nothing more. I'm sure many would consider how I spent my day to be little more than time-wasting, but how can a day spent doing only what you want to possibly be anything other than glorious?
11/13 Direct Link

According to the printed guide, the Bird's Nest was priced at ninety dollars. Being by far the smallest and most inexpensive piece of the collection, it could easily have fit in the palm of my hand. I dared not touch it, of course. Galleries are for looking, not touching. It was woven out of grass and wrapped with cheap, brightly coloured yarn. I never would have said so, there in that sparse, echoing room, but it looked like a child's craft project to me. In fairness, what do I know of the value of woven grass? I am no artist. 

11/14 Direct Link

Wires and cables are the intangible ties that bind them. Cold, emotionless technology bridges the distance, connecting them despite the vastness of the ocean and the dark loneliness of their separate worlds. They rely on a system that is beyond their control, and often, as in this moment, they suffer at its whim. The indifferent nexus is their home, and the silken strands of the blue nowhere wrap them in its virtual embrace. Through wires and cables they touch each other, although they have never touched. Despite this bitter truth, and more deeply and passionately than ever before, they love.

11/15 Direct Link

The day is yet another perfect embodiment of spring. Bees in full hypnotic voice dance between the nodding blooms, and the air is heavy with the promise of life. Blue sky stretches forever beyond her window and a gentle breeze rustles amongst the leaves, but she sees none of this. He is not here, and as it always is without him, her world is grey. Life surrounds her, reminding her that she is alone. She draws further into herself, and waits. The day lumbers forward, apathetic and without reason or purpose. He is not here and she is merely waiting.

11/16 Direct Link

Over the last twenty four hours I watched a young man with his cell phone document the eviction and subsequent re-occupation of Zuccotti Park, site of the original occupation of Wall Street. When I tuned in, he was just some guy down there in the crowd, but by the time he signed out some twenty hours later, exhausted and having not slept for two days, he was featured on the front page of They were also re-streaming his live feed to the world, estimated at one point to be over 100,000 viewers. Such is the power of the internet.

11/17 Direct Link

Bloodshot eyes in a pale face stare back from the mirror. My head pounds., my shoulders are bunched and tense and I am weary. Sleep is a rare occurrence since I discovered the live streaming of the citizen's media, faithfully reporting to us from the heart of the Occupy movement. I am watching with countless others  from around the globe, making my small contribution to the global consciousness in the only way that I can. I admire the passion of people for whom the time for impotent complaint via facebook and twitter is over, and the time for action begun.

11/18 Direct Link

It is easy to dismiss the drum circles and the homeless in the impromptu tent cities as loons or bums. It is easy to call students “dirty hippies” and tell them to “get a job”. Tuning in to watch people sitting in a park, or seeing misguided college kids who “want to get arrested, wooo!” was disheartening. I wanted to care. I wanted to be moved, but I wasn’t. It’s easy to write those things off as pointless nonsense. It isn’t so easy to ignore 30,000 people marching with candles across the Brooklyn Bridge. I watched, and I was moved.

11/19 Direct Link

It’s the waiting. It is always the waiting. I am lying here on my bed, staring at the screen again; reading our words and smiling wistfully to myself. You are not here, and so I simply imagine that you are. Here with me, laughing over something silly. Here with me, ranting passionately about something that moves us. Here with me, lying quietly together, listening to each other breathing from thousands of miles away. I know that you would be here with me, if you could be. We are always at the mercy of the cables and wires that connect us.

11/20 Direct Link
She stands in front of the mirror; thinner now, but other things have not changed. The damage done to her body by the rigors of pregnancy has definitely not changed, despite the promises of various creams and lotions. All lies, ladies; don’t believe them. Other changes have happened, but they have not been for the better. Time and gravity have both left their mark. She stretches her skin and holds her breath. The ghost of her sixteen year old self is still there, but she is marked and scarred now. She is no longer the girl she once was.
11/21 Direct Link
He sits; filled with thunderous foreboding. She feels it coming off him in waves, and she waits. She could try to lighten his mood, but she knows it is pointless. His silence is the most dangerous of all, and she knows what is to come. Part of her wants to find the trigger and tug on it, just to get it over with. To bring this tension to an end, no matter the cost. Another part of her wants to delay the storm for as long as possible. It is coming. It has to. It's just a matter of when.
11/22 Direct Link

Tonight I did something that always makes me laugh, cringe and cry. I read my old poetry. I’m talking about twenty-odd years old, when I was a snivelling, teen to whom some fool had given a pen and the mistaken belief that she could write. Yes, I was that teenager; the one with the sulky face and the potentially harmful fascination with serial killers. I even dyed my hair black.  Today’s emo kids would be proud of my futuristic trend-setting. Then again, they probably wouldn’t give a toss. They’re too busy being sad and writing crappy poetry of their own.

11/23 Direct Link

Distance magnifies everything and today has been difficult. We spent it quietly, all because of the way it started. Before we even spoke I felt as though you didn’t care if I was here or not. I felt as though you would rather be somewhere else, doing something else, and at times, being with someone else. Dealing with feelings of isolation is difficult, but when I can’t see you, or touch you or ask you for comfort, it’s impossible. Today I was hurt and I wanted something from you to make me feel better. You didn’t give it to me.

11/24 Direct Link

I am sitting at my desk; typing just to make it seem as though I’m working. Really I’m just killing time before I have to go home. Sometimes I wonder if there will ever be anything more to my life. I certainly see where I am losing things. My son has finished school already, and whether it seems like it right now or not, soon it will be time for him to start his own life. He is my only real tie to this place, and once this most feared change becomes reality, there is nothing left here for me.

11/25 Direct Link
A piece in two parts. That is what this is going to be, and that is for two reasons. First, I didn't write last night. I'd like to say that I had a good reason, but I do not. I was just too miserable, and too tired. Second, because I just sort of want to ramble a bit, without worrying about crafting the perfect sentence in exactly the right amount of words. I guess there's also a third reason. I simply do not have very much to say, which might make it difficult to reach the required word limit. Or ..
11/26 Direct Link
.. not. How about that? I made it to 100 words without even really trying. Of course, I have written absolutely nothing of value, but I think that's what these two posts are supposed to be anyway. Posts about nothing. Posts full of stuff and nonsense. I'm half way through this one already and still I have said absolutely nothing worth knowing. I imagine that I could write an entire book about the nothing that rattles around in my head sometimes. Of course, no one would want to read such a book, but I really don't think that's the point anyway.
11/27 Direct Link
I had hoped that after yesterdays dual post venting of my general apathy, I would be back on track with something inspiring, or at least vaguely interesting to write about tonight. Alas, I am not. I sit here waiting, which is something I seem to do more often than not these days. I am just waiting. For life. For happiness. For him. I read things that I wrote years ago and I smile, or grimace. I hope that one day soon I will look back on these days with the same sense of amazement at how far I have come.
11/28 Direct Link

My alarm sounds so pretty; like bells or digital wind chimes. Rarely do those chimes inspire me to rise at all. This completely defeats their singular purpose, wouldn’t you say? The snooze button is my best friend at seven thirty in the morning, and it never seems to mind how thoroughly used it gets. It’s still my friend at eight o’clock, but by eight thirty the friendship is wearing thin. By eight thirty those lovely chimes admonish my laziness, and each press of that button brings me ever closer to the brutal reality of my day. Just let me sleep.

11/29 Direct Link

She is so accustomed to the sting that her face remains impassive, even as her nails dig yet again into her pale skin. A single, scarlet bead forms at the site of her assault, but she has already moved on to more fertile soil. This is mass destruction. Though angry welts litter the landscape of her body, she is undeterred. She searches for more. She cannot look at her naked flesh without ravishing some bump or scar, no matter how small. She doesn’t feel the pain any more. Instead, there is satisfaction. She is an exhausted mine; a ruined wilderness.

11/30 Direct Link

By your very emptiness you fill the space around you. Your rounded body fits with perfection inside my warm embrace. I hold you against me with one hand around your slender throat, and I feel your tendons stretch beneath my fingers. Your voice resonates with the soft strum of my fingernails and I close my eyes to listen to you sing. My fingers squeeze tightly around your neck, your curves are pressed against me, and you sing for me in full, deep tones. Our voices synthesize, harmonize. They tumble together and become more than just a girl and her guitar.