unfolding moonbeams

And Tonight I'm Cleaning Out My Attic

We needed a Headquarters, so we got to moving boxes. The attic was warmer than the rest of the house and we knew that with some work, warmth can become coziness. So we crouched to avoid hitting our heads on the rafters and plotted the arrangement of string lights and throw pillows.

The confinement of an attic—especially in ancient houses—draws ones attention to structural minutiae. The location of fire extinguishers, haphazard positions of nails and extraneous plywood, the font on electric boxes become easy fixations.

This reminded me of past obsessions of the home improvement variety: the endless paint swatch (and name) collecting in search of the Color of All Colors; the Craigslist hunting for furniture pieces with the best names (Parquet-Topped Tables, Curios, Lawsons, Fiddlebacks, Commodes, Chaise Lounges, etc.); the Architectural Digest sifting in pursuit of The Rustic; and, of course, the Tool Time watching for JTT…

L.H.O.O.Q. Here, Friend-O

At the end of a long day in the library, reaching into your backpack and pulling out something unexpected is almost as good as getting real mail—the kind with a smudged postmark and everything. Today’s surprise was a neon pink plastic bear filled with bubble solution, complete with a whistle wand. I supressed urges to blow the whistle in the midst of everyone’s finals-prepping, but couldn’t refrain from the bubbles. Got into a little rhythm where I’d blow bubbles only when everyone’s head was down, burried in books or behind a laptop. Hide and seek for the book-fried mind. Began to get all sorts of ideas… Debated going carreling (hee) when a girl across the room looked up just in time to watch the last bubble of a cluster pop. I immediatly felt guilty. What disruptive antics! But then I caught sight of her lingering sneer—comprised of equal parts envy and bewilderment. And really, who can refute a sneer?

I Like America and America Likes Me

A constellation of precariously narrow paths extend into the bay at a place called Coyote Point in San Mateo County, California. There is a generally empty parking lot, a museum, an aviary, gardens, and then the paths—looping ones as well as a few that, like any good thriller or high-stakes wager, increasingly lead followers to a dead-end where another stride means falling and a backward glance means caving. It is for these features that Coyote Point is primarily frequented by runners and elementary school field-trippers—at least, these are the two contexts that ever brought me there.

My first time at Coyote Point was as a Rocky Horror-obsessed second grader. (Fully understanding the movie didn’t have much to do with enjoying it… or with humming the theme song with others who were at the sleepover during which we stole it from Charlotte’s parents’ collection.) On the day of the field trip I arrived terrified of encountering coyotes—which I didn’t seek out until subsequent visits—and instead found a banana slug worthy of the name Magenta. Then touch-a touch-a touch-a touched it.

Endorsing Sweeping Generalizations

Apparently in 1997 HarperCollins “drew up a list of 101 words—one a year—that defined the years 1896 to 1997.” This is according to the Wikipedia entry for “gamine,” incidentally their pick as the defining word of 1899.

Two questions: How does one get this job? and Where can one find said list?

When To Use It Is To Embody It

Braggadocio. (The word, not the font.)

This Way Up

“Parcel” is one of those beautiful words that everyone knows but rarely uses. Saw it written on the wall of the post office today and remembered how nice it sounds. I like to imagine using it frequently in my future drawing room—opening parcels, parceling things out…

I Wish There Were

Rumble strips that would make noises if I traversed them on my bicycle. I would zigzag along the highway making music for myself all the livelong day! Maybe interpretive “instrumental” remixes of classics like Queen’s “Bicycle Race” or Pink Floyd’s “Bike” would be in the cards…

Creation: And It Was So

The Seller Of Baby Shoes came to supper tonight
He’s seen better days He’s telling me,
But really who hasn’t
And who would admit to not having seen them
And Wife, who is this Seller of Baby Shoes, anyhow

And He’s mashing peas upon his plate
His fork keeping rhythm with the
Incessant dripping of some goddamn leak
And it’s not just in my head this time
Because the babies in the corner are dancing to the dripping—barefoot

Now He’s riling and grabbing the babies
Strapping them into leather apparatuses
Stroking the leather on those tiny feet
Dripping, dripping, stroking, dripping, faster
Even the iguana centerpiece can’t watch any longer

It’s only Wednesday! I yell over the dripping
We have Lightness and Darkness, Sir, not Babies! Not yet!
He grins maniacally (Wife, Wife!)
He grabs my shoulder with a clammy hand
You’re never going to win if you can’t keep a straight face, He says