day twenty-seven...searching for words.


i am searching for words tonight...
i am tired
and lonely in a house
full of people...
distracted and
unable to settle down
with one activity for very long...
i get like this in the evenings...
i sit at the computer
aimlessly searching
and surfing...
i sit at my studio desk
but nothing inspires me for long...
i really just want to be curled up
in bed with a book and some hot
cocoa
and now as i type that,
i've made a decision...
book and hot chocolate sounds
very, very good on this
dark and damp night.

thanks, nablopomo,
for helping me to make it.

day twenty-five....i digress

with a story...
(or the beginnings of one..)

Imogene Green liked the smell of fresh cut grass.
She did not like her name. Her father (who was,
as her mother said, a character) named her Imogene.
He said he always liked that name but Imogene
suspected that it was because it would rhyme
easily with other words. Her father, the character,
was constantly rhyming things...including her name.
And not usually was it ever Imogene Green, the
beauty queen. More often than not, it was Imogene
Green, the lean green bean and Imogene the mad green
machine. You get the picture.

Apart from her name, Imogene hated her arms. They
were long and skinny and bent at opposite angles. Adults
said she was double jointed but the other kids just said
she was weird.

Despite all of this, Imogene was happy. She didn`t
have a lot of friends...well...she didn`t really have any,
but she had the imagination the size of a house, the size
of a house with a swimming pool. Most of the other kids
in her grade 5 class only had an imagination the size of
a shed...and a tool shed at that! If they had any at all,
which Imogene doubted. Especially some of the other
girls. Especially some of the meaner girls. Especially
one girl in particular who was extremely mean and
not very nice and possessed no imagination at all...
Imogene was sure of this. Mary Beth Butler could
not possibly have a speck of imagination. Even her
name was boring. (And also, Mary Beth was incredibly
mean to Imogene.)

Imogene didn`t mind school but she certainly didn`t
love it. She hated math and how all of those numbers
on the page just would not stay still for her. Instead
they wriggled and danced and sometimes, they just
simply squiggled off the page and flew out the window.
Imogene would watch them, the 8 landing in a tree,
the pair of 5`s darting in the sky at each other playing
some sort of air tag. A group of numbers would get
together and fly like geese in a V formation which Imogene
thought was very clever--numbers pretending to be letters.
Pretending to be something else...now that was
something Imogene could easily understand.

day twenty-four...in which i admit...


5 truths...

i have not had time to do the 100 ideas.
and i'm cutting myself some slack on this....
i started a government program to help
me start my new business and have been
in class all day for the past two days
and when i'm home, i'm trying to get photos
edited for people who are waiting patiently...
so the 100 ideas will be done
just not in a 100 days.

i'm getting sick of mike and ikes.

i hate charmin commericials.
it's those bears wiping themselves.
it. grosses. me. out.

i would love to open a christmas present
this year and find a smurf mushroom house
(i saw them at walmart and fell in deep serious love.)

i'm scared about starting the photography
business
"for real"...
up until now...it didn't feel real...it felt like fun
and play and for now...but business plans and
market surveys and cash flow sheets kind of
suck the fun out of that....
but i'm trying to remember this is just a stage
of it...and then...it will be fun again...

day twenty-three...in which i resort to a list.

a day spent in a classroom
hot and stiff and
listening to talk of
marketing and surveys,
recessions and the
importance of good bookkeeping...

santa claus parade tonight
sitting on a sleeping bag
with ten
while 14 watches with her boyfriend
{but just down the street from us}
S. beside me
in his work coveralls
and me in his handknit earflap hat...

spaghetti for supper
before the parade...
watching out the window
with excitement
for the flashing lights,
too-crunchy-garlic-bread...

hot chocolate
and toast
when we get home...

warm slippers...
pajama pants...
the click clack of keys
the winding down
of a monday night
at home...