He Was Ridiculous… and Amazing

I enjoy hand-stitching for the same reasons I adore hammers, the colors red and black, Terry Pratchett’s writing, and the sky on nights when the moon is darkest. I won’t tell you why I love those things. Not because it might creep you out—I’d probably delight in that—I won’t tell you why because we don’t need to know each other marrow deep to be friends. If we do, then we really aren’t.

The idea of jumping off a bridge because everyone else is doing it disgusts me. But if the day (or wild night) comes when jumping is the only way forward, I shall leap into the precipice without bitching about it—my thoughts, legs, and spine must be all cat.

I’ve landed on my feet, and broken a few things before rolling with the punches takes hold of the metaphor. I’m prejudiced against welcomed stupidity. People who hurt others because they know they can get away with it should spend a lot of time on their knees being thankful to a curly-haired one-eyed woman who smoked a pipe.

I write because not doing so would kill me slowly (or someone else). I love for similar reasons. Today, I woke up in a world where my best friend was alive. Now he is dead. And I’m angry. Because the world is a bit emptier and it didn’t have to be.

The whole world will miss you, my bird of terrible feathers. And I will miss you most.

One Halloween, when we were still teenagers, he dressed up as… something covered in fake chickens. I remember asking, “What in the name of Hades’ fiery balls are you?” He said, “I’m a sexy beast.” When puzzlement showed that I couldn’t follow his logic, he added, “You know, ‘Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.’” He was that kind of ridiculous, that kind of amazing…

May your soul fly high on laughter and bad jokes, you sexy beast…

Calling on the Wild (hot coffee) Fumes of Coleridge

Five minutes and thirteen seconds; that’s how long I’ve given myself for this entry. I’ve never been able to embrace the wondrous art of “free writing”. I think too much, too often, too loudly… and I’m all right with that.

Are you wondering why I’m trying this exercise then? Well, I need a post in order to continue working on this new site. I must have some kind of template that will show me what things will look like on the blog.

I wonder if, once the final move is done, I will care for this spot as much as I do for my beloved Pagan Culture… I will. I know I must… even if I highly dislike the reasons behind the current moving rush. Those people should get something terrible between their toes; okay, not terrible… but, perhaps, something itchy that reminds them that it is terrible to take other people’s mind children.

The anger remains a tad raw. No one should be able to steal my thoughts and pretend they did my thinking. I wonder if my free writing skills will convey my meaning. I suppose I can’t think too hard about something that it’s to be done without considering the process at all, right?

Oops! my 13-second warning just buzzed. I guess five minutes don’t stick around for long when one free writes… freely.

While Gently Weeps, by Peca