Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Truffles and Quail

I literally have a pet peeve.

And before you say, "I do, too, so don't think you're special," considering the following image.

First of all, let me say that the cover artists never did Tanith Lee's work justice*, but anyway . . .
see the brown fluffy creature-thing in the very bottom right hand corner?  Looks something like a cat, but fox-ish at the same time?

It's a peeve.  A pet peeve.  And while mine is white (standard issue is brown), it's a pretty good match.  I think.
Cute and fluffy is great until she's shed all over your jeans. And shirt. And hands.
And then you realize you're gagging on fine, white hairs that somehow invaded your mouth.

Which means I have a pet peeve that irritates a pet peeve daily.

She shedsEverywhere.  Even with the help of a lint brush and packing tape, you cannot escape.  Vacuuming beats back the plague for only a few minutes.**

 I've always felt that if the house or person is hairy because of the pet(s), there shouldn't be pets because people are obviously too lazy to clean up.  But this is no longer just a pet peeve.  This is a whole new level of desperation.  I do clean.  I do fight the hair, desperately and maybe a little bit madly.

  It just never stops coming.

This almost makes up for it, though.
She snores and sleeps in human-ish positions on her peachy-colored couch's-shoulder-rest-perch, which are endearing behaviorisms.  Also, she sometimes likes it when you rub her tummy.  :3
I have other pet peeves--probably more earnest ones--but this one has taken over my brain for the time being.  DB

*This is also a pet peeve of mine, I must confess.  Inaccurate cover art drives me up a tree.  It's not fair to the author because you have incorrect expectations, it's deceiving, and it does nothing for anyone, including the artist.  Bad cover art is almost worse, because it compounds all previously discussed effects and it looks awful.  Some cover art is okay at first glance, and then you look at it and it oozes poor computer graphics-program skills.  There should be jacket art quality-checkers.  Or authors should be pickier about the cover art.  SOMETHING!!!

**I realized this when I finished the rug (and surrounding wood floor), sighed in contentment, and looked up to see floating hair.  I screamed in utter desperation.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Back Again

Sins of fathers past;
darkness and wrongs that last.
It frightens me
and is shameful to see
eternities before the mast.
As a child 
all was mild
but more I find
I cannot be blind.
All seems defiled.

I am going to write this even though it burns my pride for cheap tinder.  Forgive me.

I blame no one, though it would be easy to point fingers.  Even the whole "sins of the father" gig is shit: people tend to be lazy and avoid conscientious change, which is necessary if one means to be anything different from his or her family.

Besides, this is not some morbid banner passed down to me, though some of my family has carried it.

In some ways, I've weakened over the years.  Once upon a time, there were many things that were not going to be.  It was as simple as light and dark.  I was going to close my eyes to the existence of things, ignore them, not take part if I chose it as such.  With all the authority and conviction within me, I said I will never partake.  It was calm, it was still, and it was convinced.  It held the harrowing power of anger, the desperation of mourning, the sparkling pride of joy.

I believed it.

Ah, the simplicity of ignorance.

As I've grown, it is not so simple.  I don't know when it started, but it is there.  It happened a moment ago; it might happen again tomorrow, or the next day.  The twitch.

This is why cigarettes frighten me.

I do not smoke.  I do not like smoke.  It burns my nose, gums into my hair, sits on my tongue, digs into my eyes and my clothes and tries to stay there.  I hate smoke.

But there are times, when I am sitting still and thoughtful and somewhat stressed, that the twitch comes.  Sometimes it is a gossamer thread of thought that kisses my eyelids and trails through my hair to vanish regretfully.  Sometimes it is stronger, and I nearly reach out for it as naturally as a breath.

There are times I want a cigarette.

This is absolutely horrifying.  I can't explain the urge.  But it is there, and it can be strong as the desperate need to breathe after a long musical phrase.

And I hate it.

There is no happy ending for this.  I have no jokes to crack, no cheerful whimsies to offer.  All I can say is I thank God for what self-control he's granted me, and that there's enough to keep me out of my car when these sensations come calling.