Missives from Wonderland

Week 17: Return to My Mindhouse

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 03:17:05 GMT

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Follow the links in this page to get to all of my other entries for this week, plus a recommendation or two of previous entries.

Welcome back to my mindhouse. I've been spending a lot of time in here for the last week, enough that I had to add a special room for my ponderings. Follow me, please, past the busy room of tasks and errands that need attention, then walk past the cave-like worry room. Even further now, and put your fingers in your ears to bypass the bright newsroom of current events, or you'll never get through. Thank goodness, we're nearly there. Just step into the inviting creativity suite, with its atmospheric music and alluring scent of peppermint and vanilla (updated for the holidays).

Just a few more steps, please, across the cushioned floor, past the windows draped with filmy curtains. There, in the back corner, can you see the new construction? That archway, made of warm wood and emblazoned in gold across the top: "The Wheel of Chaos." Let's step inside.

Far from chaotic, this room feels welcoming. As you enter, you'll see shelves lined with chapbooks, with the names of a variety of writers on the spines. Some are thicker than others, but all of them give off the air of being well-read by someone who has carefully ruffled through the pages, poring over the words.

To give you an idea of what I mean, pull out the volume marked "marjorica" and turn to page 9, to the piece marked "Edgelord". You'll find that the book opens neatly to that page, as someone has clearly reread it multiple times. Read it, and you'll see why. Though written in prose, the piece distills the energy of a poem: suffused with vivid description, using carefully crafted wording, and allowing space for the reader to make connections. Note that the reader has underlined these words in the final paragraph: "There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it." How very true.

As we traverse a little further into the room, you'll see a rolled-up scroll on a little walnut table, draped with a tablecloth that's embroidered with daffodils. Next to the scroll are china bowls containing honey, milk, and a sprig of asters. If you untie the ribbon and open the curled-up linen paper, you'll see that it's an open letter to bleodswean, who ran in the Wheel of Chaos but, sadly, was eventually kidnapped by werewolves.

After a suitable period of mourning, please pull one more volume off the shelf, marked with my own name. Turn to page 3, and you'll find a poem titled "Behold." Before you read it, I'll explain why it's my favorite entry that I wrote during the Wheel of Chaos. In it, I was able to put into words a moment that has followed me for 15 years. Truthfully, just as I say in the poem, I feel that same connection with my son all these years later, when I look into his kind, expressive eyes.

Step further into the room, and you'll see that, in addition to the bookshelves, there are seating areas that seem to be focused on themes. Over there in the corner are some fantastic-looking antique thrones, perfect for ruminating on fictional worlds, such as an alien mother or a remorseful witch. You can tell I've spent a little time there, but not as much as two larger areas.

First, I'll take you to the poetry corner: the walls lined with hand-written rough drafts with crossed-out lines, circles, and arrows. Poetry is never pretty, until it is. And even then, it's not always delicate or contemplative. In fact, poetry can be a fun adventure, or even a scientific experiment. With that in mind, please sit in the overstuffed armchair and read my newest poem, "Adventures in Science". Don't be alarmed if, after reading it, you start repeating "six seven, six seven, six seven." That will wear off soon enough, as long as you're not near any elementary school or middle school kids.

As we continue our tour of the room, you'll find an area filled with yoga mats and straight-backed floor chairs, designed for those who'd like to contemplate deep thoughts, such as the meaning of nothingness, or, say, visualizing your inner thoughts as a house you can walk through.

The final seating area invites you to lounge on comfortable couches, or beanbag chairs, or a rocker recliner. Photos decorate the nearby walls and end tables, many of them containing a boy with light brown hair and chestnut brown eyes. On the coffee table rests an album, stuffed to overflowing with pictures, playbills, journal entries, and other memoranda. This place, you realize, is perfect for sitting down with an autobiography, or perhaps something more manageable, like a personal essay. I've got one ready for you, "A Banner Year," about the parallel experiences that my son and I had in high school marching band.

There's one last area, as we complete our circle and grow near the same archway that we originally entered. On a decorative stand lies an open book with a filigreed cover and lightly lined pages. A sign on the wall above it says, "Thank you for visiting. I hope you've enjoyed your journey through my mindhouse. Please leave your comments, well wishes, or memories."

And that, my friend, completes our tour.

A clear glass rose bowl, containing an arrangement of pale pink roses and snowberries, sits on a dark wood accent table, in front of a bookshelf loaded with antique books.

(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)

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Week 17: An Open Letter

Mon, 15 Dec 2025 22:50:28 GMT

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Here's the link back to My Portfolio Page. This entry tackles the prompt, "Write an 'Open Letter' to a contestant in this Wheel of Chaos who is no longer an active participant."

Dear bleodswean,

I write this on a scroll, left next to plates of honey, milk, and a sprig of asters, rapidly fading in the December coolness. Since I don't know where the werewolves have taken you, I'll leave it at the Sanctuary of Eleusis, the shrine to Persephone. That seems most meet, as you know her well, and she has appeared to you in multiple forms over the seasons to inhabit your delicately wrought stories.

So often, your pieces stay with me long after I've read them. Whether it's a series of vignettes taking us through the stages of aging while evoking the virgin, mother, crone cycle; or a couple's bonding moment, told completely through dialogue; or your heartfelt recounting of your mother's health crisis, you are a master wordsmith.

Demonstrating an economy of language, while at the same time being intricate where needed, your pieces read to me like a dance. A poem. An artscape. What's more, you're a skilled storyteller, so that the flow of the language draws inexorably towards a deserved conclusion. Sometimes, it leads to an ending that is uplifting -- like an anthem, not like doggerel -- such as in your piece about a quirky gothic theater group. More often, your endings are complicated, like a dream poem about the interconnectedness between memories, heartache, and motherhood. That, again, is an accomplishment: your ability to fit the form to the meaning, whether poetry, prose, nonfiction, fiction, or something in between.

Too many times, as I grow older, I'm reminded that we should tell people what we want them to know while we have the luxury of existing in the same timeline. When I look back, I realize how much your writing has meant to me since I first began reading it, a number of years ago. More than that, I value knowing you: how you've supported your fellow writers by egging us on in our escapades. You're often the first person to write a comment on my pieces, and it will be one that shows you've read deeply and sussed out my intention. I suppose it should be no surprise that such a gifted writer is also a perceptive reader. For that support, I'm deeply appreciative.

Why am I writing this missive, in lavender ink on linen paper, when you've been dragged away by werewolves? What purpose does it serve to leave it here? Perhaps the skulls in your art photographs will speak them into the night, and you'll hear the echo somewhere down the forest paths.

Or maybe -- and this is my hope -- like Persephone, you will rise again next season and grace us again with your abundance.

A black-and-white photo of a bare tree in winter, with its branches imitated in shadow below, so as to resemble a tree of life, with branches above and roots below.

(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)

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Week 17: A Banner Year

Sun, 14 Dec 2025 22:38:59 GMT

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Here's the link back to My Portfolio Page. This entry tackles the prompt, "Banner Year."
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photos.)

Like heavy-footed kangaroos, the members of my son's competition marching band bounce down the metal stands to the field. Usually at the end of a competition, only the drum majors and section leaders go down to represent the band for results. But today was the season-ending championship, and the announcer has invited all band members to the sidelines to support their leaders and watch results.

My husband and I remain in the stands, along with a handful of adults from the other bands. We've been the voluntary "stand parents" throughout the season: keeping the band company in the stands after their performance, just in case they needed any adult help or guidance.

This has been my son's first year in the competition marching band.* Watching him from the sidelines reminds me of my own days in high school marching band.

~~~

"I need to figure out how to make a C-3PO costume," he told me, one sweaty day after band camp. In response to my questioning look, he explained: "Each section will be dressing according to a theme on Thursday. The trumpets are dressing like Star Wars, and I'm going to be C-3PO."

We brainstormed for possible ways to pull off such a costume in the dog days of summer without sweating to the point of heat stroke. After consulting with a crafty friend, we settled on a yellow T-shirt and yellow shorts, with added-on cut felt to imitate the droid's physique.

KFP dressed as C-3PO, in yellow t-shirt and shorts, with felt affixed to resemble C-3PO's torso, and with one white and one gold sock to indicate his two-toned legs.

That Thursday, when I picked him up at the end of the day, he regaled me with stories about the different groups. The trumpet section's "Star War" costumes were a hit: complete with Princess Leia, Yoda, Darth Vader, and even BB-8.

In addition, he related, the practice field was full of color and whimsy, with characters from "Family Guy," "Peter Pan," "Scooby Doo," and "Clue," along with cowboys and a whole flute section of Tinkerbells.

Despite the exhausting heat, he related, that day transformed into one of playful camaraderie. They were no longer trudging through to their marks but gliding in character.

~~~

While it would have been far easier to dress as Alice in Wonderland, that connection was a little too much on-the-nose for me. Our director had encouraged us to wear costumes for our participation in the annual Halloween parade in a nearby town. I was going as the Mad Hatter.

For my costume, I'd studied the original illustrations by Sir John Tenniel. I got myself an oversized top hat, affixing the label reading "In this style 10/6." In addition, I wore an oversized shirt to resemble his ill-fitting suit jacket, and tied a polka-dot tie around my neck. As I remember, my mom helped me make one out of painted cardboard and elastic.

Because I lived in a time before Instagram, I'm not entirely certain there were ever any photos of my fabulous costume. But I know that, of all the costumes I wore in high school, that one was my favorite.

I didn't care that people had no idea who I was, as I ran around insisting that 'We're all mad here" and asking people why a raven was like a writing desk.

My best friend, who was in the color guard and dressed as a black cat, followed me around, purring and mewing until even those who had no idea what was happening joined in on the fun, acting in character as Frankenstein's monster, or a witch, or a heavy metal star. We rocked that parade!

~~~

The announcer makes her way through the results for each division, and we shuffle our feet in the cold and clap for everyone. As the bands, in turn, receive their results, their contingents of band leaders salute and step forward, to cheers from their band mates.

Gradually, the announcer works through the smallest divisions to reach our school's division, Liberty A, for bands with 51 to 70 students. As far as I can remember, that's roughly the size that my marching band was, as well, although it felt larger at the time.

The announcer reads out the rankings, starting with 15th place. For each, she reads the scores, along with any special awards that group won. We know the competition is tight, as this comprises not only the bands my son's band has already competed against this season, but also some they've never met. While his band has always done well, today, they were competing in a much larger pool.

As the announcer makes it to 10th place, and creeping higher, the scores climb, as well. We know that the previous week, we'd been in the high 80s, and the scores soon overcome that mark. No matter where we land now, we've improved.

My husband and I cross our fingers and wait while the band, barely visible across the field, stomp their feet in anticipation.

~~~

Competition marching band today has changed in key ways since I was a high school student 40 years ago. Our shows resembled the kind of half-time shows that college bands still perform, with precision marching between set forms, playing traditional marching band instruments.

Even then, the practices and expectations were changing. One year, for example, we used an amplifier in order to allow a piccolo player (also our drum major) to play a solo during a John Philip Sousa piece. (Our band director was a huge Sousa fan). Other bands sometimes threw in fun moments, like a dancing drum line. But those were the exceptions, not the rule.

Now, all these years later, inspired by innovative techniques and driven by a new generation of directors, the field performances most closely resemble a theatrical performance. Nearly every band wheeled out set pieces that sometimes acted as mere backdrops and sometimes became a part of the action, such as a pirate ship that could be stood on by members of the color guard. Often, band members would dance while playing or move between their marks either at double-time or with dramatic movements, such as lunging like zombies for a show set in a world overcome with those monsters.

The use of traditional marching band instruments has also been augmented. Some bands used amplifiers to play sound effects, or recorded narration, or to allow them to field an electric guitarist and bassist, for example.

My son's band performed a show called "Desperado," with a cowboy theme that included wooden fences that could be wheeled around. They wore black cowboy hats and western-style shirts with their black uniform pants. The color guard wore pink hats and a fabulous pink and purple jumpsuit with dramatic white blousey sleeves.

At the beginning of the show, many of the band members danced without their instruments, modern style, with graceful reaching arms, telling a story with their entire bodies. My son was one of this group and was proud to have been picked. He and his partner in the color guard appear in a photograph that was published by the Cavalcade of Bands, who run the competitions.

As my son explained, the story was a day in the life of a Western town, with a welcoming open number, active midday -- including a trombone solo with color guard framing the soloist with pink fans -- and finally, an end to the day, where everyone falls down again, asleep.

My son leans on one of the wooden fences, while his dance partner stands on it from behind with one foot on the bottom rung, one knee resting on the middle rung, and her large pink fan poised in her right hand.

~~~

My son relates another fun memory from the year, where they were practicing their field show. One of the trumpets made her way towards a chair that marked where one of the fences would be and, in a moment of whimsy, tried to vault the chair but collapsed on the ground instead.

Hearing about this later, one of the freshman trumpet players scoffed that vaulting a chair was easy. He tried to do so and also failed spectacularly. Seeing this, one of the tallest trumpet players announced he would jump up onto the chair in a squat. He, too, failed.

My son, not to be deterred by the previous failures, took his own shot at jumping onto the chair in a squat. "It was easy," he told me. That, however, was when the drum major took notice of what the trumpet line had been doing and shouted at them to "Stop jumping on chairs."

Sheepishly, they returned to their line, finding it very hard to play with smiles stretching across their faces.

~~~

I know we worked very hard on our routines and took competition seriously, but I'll be honest that I have no clear memory of any scores or standings. Instead, I remember moments like the one my son shared with me: silly jokes, shared between band mates.

Buying "Happy Meals" at a McDonald's on the way to a competition and playing with the toys in the bus aisles.

My friend and I making our fingers dance like can-can dancers on the back of the bus seat.

Crushing on one of my fellow clarinet players, and then finding out a different clarinet player was crushing on me. (He was a nice guy, but was relegated to friend material by my adolescent brain.)

Some of the more entertaining moments on the field, such as the show where we got to pull little flags out of sleeves and wave them in a pattern. Or "Fanfare of the Common Man," where our trumpet soloist always blew the judges away.

Or stories people would relate of judges being so close to them on the field that they nearly had to run over them to make their marks. (These days, I've been told, judges stay more to the sidelines to avoid collisions, which happened more often than you'd think.)

Along with the camaraderie, marching band heralded my growing awareness that I could be myself, as silly or as different as I wanted to be, and be accepted. Along the way, I developed newfound independence and confidence. I think for many of us, band was our safe space.

~~~

The announcer gets closer to the top. Whatever they get now, they've well-surpassed their original scores this season. I think of that first show, when they all seemed green and uncertain, compared with tonight's performance, where they hit their marks with precision. Their dance routines seemed more heartfelt than ever before, and the music both powerful and sweet.

So as the numbers climbed higher, and as they surpassed some bands they'd lost to in earlier competitions, our excitement grew. Then, the announcer said, "Placing 4th in the Liberty A division, scoring a 93.563," and read the name of our son's high school. Even from the stands, we could see the explosion of cheers and bouncing brown-pink-and-black figures.

The band director and assistant band director, who'd joined us in the stands, told us it was the best the school had done in nearly 10 years!

After all the competition results were delivered, the announcer invited all the bands to run onto the field and celebrate with their band leaders. Which, of course, they did. And since we were no longer needed that evening, the band director dismissed my husband and me. We walked through the cold November air on our creaky middle-aged legs, full of joy for the young people running like gazelles across the white-lined green field, riding waves of friendship, self-confidence, and excitement.

At left is me in my sophomore year of high school, wearing my black and orange band uniform and holding my clarinet. At right is my son, KFP, who's currently a sophomore, wearing his red and black band uniform and holding his trumpet.

* Unlike many other schools, my son's high school has two distinct marching ensembles. The football marching band is mandatory for anyone who will perform in the concert band the rest of the year. There are also color guard, who take the course as an elective, I believe. The football marching band learns a traditional half-time show, marching in formation to music. They participate in a couple community activities, as well, including an annual parade and performing at the Memorial Day ceremonies.

The competition marching band is voluntary and treated as an extracurricular activity instead of a class. There are additional practices, including an additional week of summer band camp. They learn a separate marching show, which is more theatrical and uses props, set pieces, and special uniforms. Throughout the competition season, they compete against other bands of similar size, gaining points that dictate their start for later competitions. For each performance, they receive points for Music, Visual, and General Effect, with penalties subtracted.

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Week 17: Six, Seven

Sun, 14 Dec 2025 18:19:27 GMT

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Here's the link back to My Portfolio page. This entry tackles the prompt, "Six, Seven."

Adventures in Science

Can we eat this? they ask.
No, I say. Though fluffy like
marshmallows, it's still slime.
You'd think they would remember
the glue and liquid starch,
with shaving cream and hand soap.

Electricity or
biology, minerals
or animals. Weather,
physics, architecture, or
light and sound. We forge new
learning pathways together.

The ones you remember
aren't always those who behave.
One who took his shoe off
and then chased people with it.
Or the frenemies, in
each other's faces, breathing.

Here, two silly gigglers
who love science but also
love jokes. Last year, a boy
who snarked everyone and poured
glue all over his hands.
I try to make them helpers.

Type A students tattle
when others violate rules.
They are first to raise their
hands to answer my questions.
The girl who bounced out of
her chair to offer ideas.

And the smallest ones, who
need personal attention:
my hands-on help to hold,
or tape, or manipulate
materials. They speak
with tiny plaintive voices.

Can you help me? they ask.
After they fail, I assist.
The wee girl in braids who
cried when the experiment
went wrong. Sometimes there is
some crying in science club.

But I'm nice, or so they
tell me. I let them sit with
friends, make their own nametags.
I accept chaos if they're
excited while they learn.
If it's fun, we're doing it.

Some, I'll never forget:
the girl with anxiety
who hid under the desk.
But only once my whole year;
surprisingly, I heard
she hid often with others.

The girl on the spectrum
who feared loud noises, so I
found another option
instead of popping balloons
to find a puzzle clue
for a science escape room.

Or the boy so filled with
doubt after his folks' divorce
that, when he messed up, he
moaned, That's why my dad left us.
I told him, We all make
mistakes. We can learn from them.

In moments like that one,
I try to buoy the kids up,
telling them they're valued
and that they deserve respect.
And then I turn their minds
back to the fun we're having.

(And the little kids say,
Six seven, six seven, six
seven, as if sharing
a secret passcode to joy.
A childhood cipher, free
for my interpretation.)

An experiment to show the principles of dissolution (sugar from the candies dissolving in water) and diffusion (the spreading of colored dye from a high to a low concentration). On a white plastic plate, Skittles have been arranged around one side and warm water poured into the center. After a few minutes, the dye has pulled away from the now-whitened candies into streaks of psychedelic color.

(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)

While I originally started this piece as an essay, I soon came up with a very fitting original form poem, based on syllables. Each stanza goes 6-7-6-7-6-7, which if you've spent any time lately with elementary and middle school students, you've heard way too often! I can actually pinpoint when it hit the school where I'm teaching this year, because at the beginning of the school year, when they made their name tags, they contained the usual drawings of beakers and molecules and weird animals. Then, when we returned from a two-week break to start the next unit, everyone was decorating their nametags with "6-7."

There are many other moments I could have included, but I tried to provide a taste of what it's like to deal with the chaos, the heart-rending moments, and the joy that you get from working with elementary schoolers.

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Week 16(b) - There Was Only One Bed

Sun, 30 Nov 2025 23:45:57 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This is my second of two entries, this one on the topic "There Was Only One Bed."

On New Year's Eve 1999, I attended a party at West Chester University with a bunch of art majors, and at the end of the evening, several of us ended up in bed together. But before we get to that, let me set the scene.

The party took place at the off-campus place of my sister's good friend from high school, whom we'll call Tatiana. Even though they'd gone to different colleges, they tried to see each other during holidays and breaks. As I remember, Tatiana shared her place with one or two roommates, and she introduced us to her girlfriend, so maybe that was one of the people who lived there.

My sister was home for the holidays, and I lived in my hometown, having finished college and grad school and burned through my brief first marriage. I was dating someone, but he was out of town for the holidays. So, knowing I had no other plans, my sister invited me along. I was relieved to be spending time with her and Tatiana, whom I knew as a witty, creative person and a loyal friend. It was much better, I reasoned, to spend time with my sister than be a third wheel at my mom's New Year's Eve plans with the woman she was dating at the time, or falling asleep in front of the TV with my dad in his apartment over his medical office.

Tatiana rented a place on a quiet street. I remember it as a free-standing quaint house of only one floor, but it's possible that the house was a duplex and that there was an upper floor that was a second apartment. All I know is that the kitchen was large and filled with delectables that the guests had brought; much better than the food you'd expect from a college party. The alcohol was a cut above, as well. Tatiana was practicing her bartending skills in hopes of getting a job in a local restaurant to help with bills.

Her living room, where we all hung out, reminded me of a dance hall, with wooden flooring and plenty of space. Music played throughout the evening, and I spent time admiring the fantastic collage that Tatiana had made on one of the walls. She'd covered it with images pulled from magazines: arty photos, landscapes, and celebrities she admired. Because she's a tall woman, Tatiana was able to cover most of the wall without even stepping on a stool.

The guests were mostly art majors, as I said above, many of them LGBTQ, including another male friend, Brayden +, who had gone to high school with my sister and Tatiana. The party guests were great company: chatting and making jokes, dancing along with their favorite songs, and accepting me, the stranger tagging along with her much younger sister. (Seven years separate the two of us, although it seemed more significant of a difference back then.)

Behind my smiles, I was also harboring sadness. Not for my failed marriage, which had ended more than a year previously, but for a guy I was dating at the time who, for reasons known only to him, had gone to visit his family for the holidays and had not made any effort to contact me since he'd left. In those days, I didn't yet have a cell phone; nor did he. We could have emailed each other, or he could have called my place and left a message. But my emails fell into the ether, unread, and my answering machine remained empty.

You wouldn't know this, but saying that I was "harboring sadness" is also a bit of wordplay. You see, he called himself "Sadness" on some of the online forums he frequented: the sort of message boards that attracted people like him, who were former punks and forever renegades, still wearing leather jackets and bleaching their hair as they approached 30, but without any real prospects or current art/film/music projects to brag about. Someone like that could be charming enough for a while to entice people like me, who were, admittedly, on the rebound. It would take me a couple of years of off-and-on dating with this psychic vampire before I finally gave him the proverbial Doc Marten on his backside and then painted my windows shut.*

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one missing someone. A girl with black swirling curls lacquered to her forehead lounged on a couch, telling anyone who engaged her in conversation about her boyfriend, who had been a drummer in the band Bloodhound Gang before they became famous.

Famous is the kindest possible way to put it, because they were mainly known for "Fire Water Burn," which was three years old at the time of the party. No other hits or successes followed, so I think most people, even then, would have considered the band a one-hit wonder. Not to mention that, admittedly, her beau had left the band before that single was even recorded.

But, if the other guests shared my view of the Bloodhound Gang, it didn't show. They were very kind to her about her missing boyfriend who, for whatever reason, was not at the party. I believe she made some vague reference to him being away on tour, but she didn't mention the name of the band, so I guess they weren't even as famous as the Bloodhound Gang.

I don't remember talking much about Sadness at the party, because I was aware that the more I talked about him, the worse he would sound. Why couldn't he just call me? Or answer my emails? There was no good reason that I could think of, except that he probably wasn't thinking about me. To me, that was worse than if something bad had happened to him, making him incapable of reaching out. I mean, if he'd been in an accident and acquired amnesia, for example, he couldn't be blamed for this cone of silence. And, likewise, I couldn't be blamed for holding out hope for a guy who clearly didn't deserve it.

The night wore on. The lighting in the dancehall living room was mellow as we made a giant circle, clinked classes together, and danced in the new year. Then, one by one, the guests started to leave. Those who lived within walking distance, that is. Tatiana insisted that no one who'd driven was allowed to leave if they'd been drinking.

That included my sister and me, plus the Bloodhound Gang girl, plus Brayden and about three others. Bloodhound Gang Girl stayed on the sofa where she'd been holding court all night and soon was asleep, sleeping on her back so as not to mess her hair.

The roomies disappeared to their own spaces in the rental, leaving the rest of us with our host. "OK, we'll stay, but where do we sleep?" someone asked timidly.

Tatiana thought for a moment, then directed all of us into her spacious bedroom, off the living room. In the center of the room was a king-sized bed, but no other comfortable furniture. A couple of the guys were resigning themselves to making do on the throw rug, but Tatiana would have none of it.

"We can all fit," she declared. "We'll just have to sleep sideways."

"I'm sorry, what?" Brayden questioned.

Patiently, she explained. "Everyone sleeps with their head on one side of the bed and their feet on the other side. It'll work."

We were a little unsure about the awkward arrangement at first, but we were also tired and did not want to test Tatiana's resolve about letting us out her front door. So after talking about the arrangement, we found ourselves arranged like human logs, side-by-side from the headboard to the foot of the bed. She was right; we all fit. We didn't have a blanket over us, because would have made it even more awkward. But the heat was on, and the warm bodies on either side kept us fairly toasty.

I remember being between my sister and someone else that I tried not to encroach upon. Back then, I could sleep through the night without waking up from hot flashes or emergency potty runs, so I did fine with this impromptu sleeping space.

Although I do remember lying there for the first several minutes, thinking of Sadness and what he was doing; whether he was thinking about me. If I'd had it in me, when I finally saw him again after the holidays, I would have told him that I didn't miss him a bit. "In fact, I slept with five people on New Year's Eve," I would have told him, and then refused to elaborate.

+ Not his real name.
* I literally did paint my window shut in my second-floor apartment, because he'd once let himself in that way when I was out. I thought he might kidnap my dog or something worse.

"Fire Water Burn" by Bloodhound Gang
The official video to "Fire Water Burn" by the Bloodhound Gang

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Week 16 (a): Time Warp

Sun, 30 Nov 2025 19:01:51 GMT

This is my first entry for Week 16 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This week we have to write two entries. The topic for this one is "kako no ashioto," a Japanese phrase which translates to "footsteps of the past" or "footsteps in the past."

This morning, my son, KFP, asked me what life was like before the Internet. My husband and I explained several differences: talking with friends on a landline; looking up information in a library or with an encyclopedia (often several years out of date); planning weekend activities by using the newspaper's movie ads; reading magazines like "Consumer Reports" for product reviews.

KFP wouldn't remember, but we vacationed in the 1980s for one week when he was a toddler.

The private cabin we rented near Raystown Lake, seen from the back yard. Some people are on the second-floor deck, leaning on the wooden railings. Surrounding the wooden structure is a large grassy back yard and many deciduous trees, aleaf with green.

At least, that's how my family jokingly referred to that vacation: staying for a week at a rented cabin on Raystown Lake in Central Pennsylvania, without WiFi or cable television. With its country kitsch decor, the cabin, indeed, seemed frozen in time in about 1985.

Ever since we've been adults, my siblings and I have often planned a summer vacation together, inviting our parents along. Though they were divorced, my parents remained friends and could cohabitate in a large rented house along with the rest of us.

My brother's kids were about 5 and 7 at the time, and my son, KFP, was just over a year old and still a wobbly walker. My brother arrived early and saw that the cabin had virtually no baby-proofing. The baby gate we'd told him we were bringing would never have bridged the opening at the top of the double stairway on the second floor.

So, my brother pushed the wide coffee table in front of the stairs to serve as a movable barrier, after counseling his kids that they were not allowed to stand or play on the coffee table. It was the sort of solution that we Gen Xers could remember from our own childhoods, and it worked surprisingly well. Looking back, it was a little fraught with possible danger, but we were all younger then, and the adults either moved the table aside or were able to climb over it (!!!).

Fortunately, we didn't have to use those stairs very often, because there was also a flight of steps to the second-floor deck, which was easy to close at the top with our baby gate. So, just in case you feared that this story would end with a precipitous fall down the stairs, rest assured that it does not.

The second floor was where we spent most of our time, as it housed the kitchen, living room, most of the bedrooms, and a bathroom. (In fact, I don't really remember the ground floor, because I think the bedrooms on that floor were occupied by my brother's family.) Hewn of wood, the walls reminded us of the wood paneling in our childhood living room.

My dad reads a book to KFP, who had hair curling around his ears before his first haircut. My dad was wearing his favorite light-blue polo shirt, which was his way of dressing casually. You can see a little of the wood paneling behind him.

This is perhaps a good time to remind people that, contrary to popular belief about the 1980s, most households didn't immediately update their homes to reflect a 1980s aesthetic of bold geometric shapes and bright colors. If, like my parents, they purchased and decorated their home in the 1970s and then had children, when the 1980s rolled around, and those kids were either pre-teens or teenagers, the 1970s decor still covered the walls. Or, in the case of wood paneling, it was built-in and not easy to change.

During our 1980s vacation, we soon realized that activity planning was more challenging. My sister had wisely printed out some options, but when we wanted to find out about hours or parking, we had to call the attractions using the landline. (Most of our cell phones didn't work when we were at the cabin.)

For the first time in at least a decade, we found ourselves looking through the phone book when we needed, for example, to find a local grocery store. We showed my brother's kids how it worked, but I'm not sure any of it made sense to them. KFP, of course, was too young for such considerations and was spending his time playing with toys on the floor.

We spent some sunny days on beaches along the shores of Raystown Lake, but we were sometimes more surprised by dicey weather than we would have been if our cell phones had given us access to the Minutecast rain predictor from our favorite weather app. Watching the clouds roll in and the sky darken, then gathering our stuff to go, felt more like old times. Look, kids. Weather prediction once you left the house meant relying on your eyes, your ears, and your gut.

KFP in his blue wet-suit style swimsuit and floppy blue beach hat, with a blue pail on the beach at Raystown Lake on a sunny day.

When we had a completely rainy day, we discovered the problem with satellite TV. Turns out that the very weather that brought us inside to the television was super-bad for satellite service. We gave up on broadcast television and perused the collection of VHS tapes on a nearby bookshelf. I forget what we chose, but it was a 1980s family movie that the adults had seen many times. Soon, all the kids lost interest, so we turned it off and played some board games.

Again, not too different from a rainy weekend in the 1980s where, if you had no other plans, and nothing good was on TV, you'd pull out Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit, or my family's favorite, Parcheesi. I would often win Parcheesi, due to both luck and my intuitive form of strategizing. My Dad would usually win Trivial Pursuit, due to his mastery of Baby Boomer facts which, at the time, made up the bulk of the questions.

Both my husband and my sister's husband had to spend some time away from the rest of the family that week, because they had to do things for work. Because they couldn't connect at the cabin, they drove to a local cyber cafe to get their work done. And yes, it was 2011, and while most cyber cafes had shuttered by then, this town had such negligible Internet access that this one did good business. (It's like a time capsule within a time capsule.) Who knows if it would still exist today, in 2025?

Being cut off from the rest of the world didn't bother the kids back then the way it might today. None of them were old enough to have their own cell phones, especially not my sister's first-born, who was still growing inside her mother. None of them relied on electronic devices for entertainment yet. In fact, my brother's kids enjoyed reading to their little cousin. We took long walks together and found a toad in the backyard. My mom spent hours sitting at a picnic table in the grassy yard, drawing what she saw.

A greenish-brown toad perches on my nephew's thumb, who is otherwise not visible in this shot.

My mom, wearing a light blue bucket hat, with her paper taped to a portable board, lost in thought as she works with colored pencils.

My mom's pastel drawing, labeled "Farm Wagon," of one of the old decorative wagons that sat at the edges of the lawn.

We spent a very silly evening convincing my son that all of our noses made different sounds. He toddled between us, beeping our noses to see what sounds we'd make: from a high-pitched beep to a loud honk. When nighttime came, he didn't want to go to sleep while everyone was still hanging out, and he would writhe on the couch as he tried to keep his head up. But I would gently remove him from all the noise and fun and take him to the bedroom, where I'd coax him to sleep with mommy hugs and songs. (And, admittedly, watching his favorite "Caillou" DVD on a portable player I'd remembered to bring.)

While he doesn't remember it, for that week, my son experienced the good parts, and some of the bad parts, of the 1980s. You had to work harder to find reliable information and hope that things hadn't changed by the time you used that info. You were largely cut off from the larger world, but if you had supportive family and friends around you, you didn't mind as much. Consuming media wasn't always an option, unless you owned the media in question. When bad weather hit, you'd be even more isolated, but board games often came to the rescue.

Reflecting further, I'd add that you didn't have an easy way to connect with people outside of your immediate circle or area. So, for example, while I shared my love of "Monty Python" with my brother and a couple of friends in high school, it wasn't until I went to college that I realized how many other fans existed, not just at Penn State, but around the world.

For anyone who differed from the mainstream, it was harder to feel seen. I kept a lot of my opinions to myself back then, not realizing that some of my high school classmates were doing the same thing. Only when we connected later on Facebook did I realize that we'd all been just a little bit intimidated to let our freak flags fly.

I'd tell my son that, if he really wanted to experience the 1980s, we could try to book that cabin again. But I realize now that wouldn't quite be the same. It's different to go to a remote location when you're used to being connected than it was for us to live that way, back in the day, when we'd never known anything different. As we'd trodded at a snail's pace through the 1980s, we saw the bright shapes of the future expanding around us as a glorious promise.

My husband walks with KFP, who was just a little nugget back then. My husband had to lean down to grasp his hand. KFP turns back to look at the camera with a curious glance.

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Week 15: Mind Trip

Thu, 20 Nov 2025 02:28:57 GMT

This is my tiebreaker entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. It was an open topic.

Come closer. I'd like to share a secret.

When I fall silent, seemingly lost in thought, I am probably wandering through the cluttered hallways of my mindhouse. Depending on how far in I've gone, I may take longer to respond. Here, I'll show you.

Step inside this first door, to the side of the entrance hallway. Whew! Busy, right? Inside this bright, colorful room, you'll see visual representations of all the tasks, errands, and requests that compete for my attention. A digitized envelope bearing wings flies by: an unanswered email. Whizzing clocks line the walls, along with a jumbled calendar, overfilled and pulsing. If you look carefully, the calendar contains images relating to the waiting tasks, such as a pool deck for my aqua fitness classes, and a trumpet in a car to indicate picking my son up from band practice. Don't spend too much time in here, or you'll get dizzy. We'll see it again on the way out, anyway. It's pretty hard to avoid.

Not much further down the hallway, follow me into this damp, cave-like space. Here live my worries. They thrive on discomfort. Right in front of us, an increasingly blob-like simulacrum of myself, rolling in pain as she becomes more and more unfit and immobile. She keeps demanding to be seen, especially every time I stub my toe or catch a cold. Dangling from the ceiling like stalactites, there's a dripping assemblage of minor fears: like sleeping through my alarm clock, forgetting someone's name, and failing to complete a task from the previous room. You probably shouldn't venture into the darker caverns; they contain more primal fears like the death of loved ones, major losses, and even the impairment of my mind. Step carefully as you exit, so as not to drag any of these denizens back with you.

Next, we'll visit one of the loudest rooms, dedicated to news and events. Try not to trip on the headlines, jetting like tickertape from the never-ending news apparatus in the center. This spacious place is abuzz with more than headlines. You might think those are TVs on the walls, but look closer. They're giant smartphone screens, zoomed into bulletins from friends and family, or sometimes a fragment of an article I read somewhere. Wish I could remember where, because it's interesting enough to tell other people about it. Please note: these are only memories of the news items, so their veracity may be even more in question than the original newsflashes.

You may be able to hear the next room from the hallway. The creativity suite lures you in with atmospheric music, cinnamon and chocolate aromas, softly suffused sunlight from the wide-open windows. Hang out here on the comfy cushions and reach for the ideas as they waft by in a sea of filmy colors. Look. The one you've got in your hand. It looks a bit like a house, right? I caught the same one right before I started this piece. Hold it in the sunlight and let it grow. Don't worry. If you have to leave it here while you visit another room, you can easily find it again when you return. Just don't wait too long, or it will start to fade again.

If I had it to do over, I'd never have built this next room. Why, you ask? You'll see. Mind your head on the doorway: it's a little too small to walk in normally. You don't want to hear how many times I've hit my head on this archway and kicked myself. Regrets roll, slither, and seep throughout this dingy room. Though every surface is grimed with an unpleasant combination of dust and grease, you can see the circular path I've worn clean. These regrets vary in size and importance: from a misspoken word, plinking like a rolling marble; to a missed opportunity, shriveled and mummified on a shelf. I'd rather you didn't notice how many of these memories have been misshapen by my noxious habit of holding them close to my chest. I really wish I knew how to quit them.

Still with me? I'll confess, I'm impressed. We've traversed through some unpleasant territory, but I promise I've saved the best for last. In this room, suffused with golden light, you'll see nothing but delights. Replaying on a loop, you'll see holograms of happy moments. If you look closely, you'll recognize the same person in many of them: growing steadily over the years but always with his warm brown eyes. My son, standing on wobbly legs, or enjoying a soft pretzel as we sit on a sun-soaked lawn. My son, wearing his glasses for the first time, or swimming across the pool in water beams of light. My son, growing steadily, but still the same kind, laugh-filled spirit. Definitely the best thing I've ever done. Go ahead and tour this room. You'll see other loops, containing people I've helped. An aqua fitness student thanking me for making her mobile again. Or a stranger I helped yesterday by pointing out that her headlights weren't on in the darkening twilight. In this space, you'll also encounter satisfying scents, sounds, and feelings, with walls the brilliant hues of sunset, with soft grass underfoot, with a very purring of the air. Feel free to linger as long as you'd like.

Now perhaps you can understand how, sometimes, I get a bit lost in here. If you're perceptive, you might be able to guess which room I'm visiting by the expression on my face: a micro-expression of despair, or a distinct upturn of the mouth, a light in the eyes. Maybe you'll hear me hum a little tune, or mumble briefly to myself, as if sending away a bad thought. I've been told my face is expressive enough that these inner journeys often show through.

Thanks for coming along with me on the tour. I hope you've enjoyed it. No, you don't need to walk all the way back. Simply open your eyes.

A miniature carnival, part of a train set. A blurry umbrella ride rotates on the left side of the photo, while a red swing ride dominates the right side. The background is dotted with blurry white Christmas lights, with the indistinct green and gray shape of a hill rising in the middle distance.

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Week 15: Adieu to My Mind (Swimming Mantra)

Thu, 13 Nov 2025 21:30:35 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos, and it requires a little explanation. We were supposed to choose an opponent to challenge. I was selected by flipflop_diva. Then, we were supposed to write something that was inspired by their entries the week before. But last week, she took a bye!

So I consulted with clauderainsrm about what to do. He said to use "bye" as my prompt. I used both meanings of bye: the sense of passing easily onto something else, and of course, many synonyms for "good-bye." In order to also respond to her entries (or lack thereof), I incorporated the idea of nothingness or emptiness.

Adieu to My Mind (Swimming Mantra)

Sayonara to conscious thought, swept
by pool current. I'm in a slow lane, saying
so long to my cares, one stroke at a time.
Feedback loop of reach and pull (reach and
pool?) Legs doing their frog thing, kicking me
forward. Cheerio, shallow end. Here's
to deep thoughts on this good day
of fragile sun and silvery skies. Maybe
a cinnamon leaf, sliding sideways. Adios,
maple trees and hardwoods. So long
to deciduousness. Like
decisions, and tasks, and everything
not floating here with me
in the pool. Arrivederci to
reminders, flashing lights, alarms.
Full erasure of everything but
swoosh, pump, sweep, thump.
Over and over, reiterated
like a metronome beneath
my movement. Gliding
to happy landings.

KFP at about the age of 8, splashing his way down the pool along the path of an underwater black line. As seen from above, you can just see his brown hair, wet and shiny, along with his ghostly white legs, while his aqua shirt and aqua-and-teal patterned trunks fade into the pool.

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Week 14(b): Ambuscade

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 01:32:07 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos, with the topic "Ambuscade."

The dusty chandelier suddenly dropped and nearly hit her head, but stopped with a jerk. She stifled a scream, then reminded herself to breathe. Staying calm was the only way out of this place. Against her will, she continued moving forward, stepping into the darkness.

Something brushed against her shoulder and scuttled away. A giant spider? She shuddered. "It can't hurt me," she told herself, the mantra she kept repeating, as she took each trembling step.

Through the doorway, a light flickered. Shadows grew on the wall as she approached, and then she saw a piano, sitting in the center of the room, which her eyes now realized was a sort of dilapidated ballroom. The piano was spotlit by a patch of moonlit, shining down through a hole in the ceiling. She couldn't stop looking at it, but knew that she probably shouldn't because...

Behind her shoulder, a spooky voice growled deeply. "Are you here for the party?"

As she turned to look at the phantom voice, the vacant piano suddenly started playing, an ominous tune that grew louder as she whipped her head back around to view it. Frozen in space, she didn't know what to do. Should she walk closer to that damned piano? Or try to find a way around it?

Her decision was made for her as the voice behind her said in booming tones: "Get ready for the dance of the dead!"

A cadre of skeletons emerged from the corners, their faces wide with toothy smiles as they clanged their bony knees together in the rough semblance of a dance. They chased her into the next room and then, just as suddenly, stopped at the doorway and slunk back into the shadows.

How long had she been in this place? Ten minutes? More? It felt like hours, as her legs shook with every step. Naturally, she was in another featureless black corridor. No way to see what surrounded her, but she felt feathery things brushing her face. "They can't hurt me, they can't hurt me," she breathed.

A red light grew ahead, flickering like a fire. She didn't know where this hallway was taking her but figured it couldn't be worse than the Dead Can Dance party.

A squealing sound next to her -- like a cat whose tail had just been stomped -- forced her to walk faster, despite her desire. Before long, she found herself in a cave-like room, with alcoves lit by flickering candles. In the center lay a sable coffin, with a barely perceptible name carved into the sides: D-R-A-C-U was all she could make out.

To her dismay, she knew she would not be able to get through this room without walking right next to the coffin. Perhaps if she sucked her breath in, she could go by unnoticed. Or maybe the right thing to do was just run? As terror drove her knocking knees forward, the lid of the coffin creaked open. Her breath caught. Then, behind her and much too close, she heard a heavily-accented voice: "I vant to suck your blood!"

By instinct, she whipped around and punched blindly into the dark, colliding with a surprisingly warm and soft body.

"Damn it!" the vampire shouted, bent over in pain. His black leatherette cape hung over his shoulders like an oversized towel. "They don't pay me enough for this," he gasped.

Immediately, her brain cleared, the fear that had clouded it dissipating like a bad dream. "I'm -- I'm so sorry," she muttered.

Like a prizefighter who had just lost the match, he remained bent over. "I know, I know. They all say that," he said. "But you're the last one. I'm done with this." He straightened up, he threw up his hands and started marching out of the room, to a door she hadn't even noticed before. As she watched, agape, he turned around and asked, "So, are you coming, or what?"

"You'll show me the way out?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "No reason for you to fight your way out."

The door he opened didn't creak: it barely made a sound. And once they were through it, the lighting switched to a dim fluorescence. The floor was clear of obstructions. She could see on both sides of her: nothing but a nondescript hallway of simple boards.

As they made their way through the snaky hallway, she could hear phantom moans and groans through the walls. Occasionally, she heard an unprogrammed scream, often followed by nervous laughter. She felt ridiculous, having ever been fooled by all of the sounds and visual tricks.

She wanted to talk to the vampire, but she didn't really know what to say to someone she'd gut-punched. Other than to apologize again, profusely, and assure him she'd never done anything like that before.

The pain must have worn off, because he brushed her apology aside with an easy laugh and said, "Don't sweat it." While the first part of her journey through the haunted house seemed to take hours, exiting it this way seemed to take mere seconds. She was almost sorry for the experience to end.

He opened the last door, the one that led to the carnival outside. A blast of color and noise met her, and she laughed at herself for ever being afraid. A carnival barker drew her attention, asking her if she wanted to win a purple gorilla. She said no.

Then, she turned back to her hero. "Thank you," she said, but her words trailed off, unheard. He'd already disappeared into the brightly-lit carnival grounds on the crisp fall evening.

This was based on a dream I once had. I used to have recurring dreams about going through a terrifying funhouse. While I knew it was fake, I was still very frightened.

Then, one night in a dream, I actually punched a vampire who jumped out at me. We had an exchange very similar to the one recounted above, with him leading me out of the haunted house. Since then, not only have I not had this recurring dream, but I've been more at ease with visiting real-life haunted houses when the opportunity arises.

A blurry photo of some of the day-glo spooks in my favorite haunted house, at Knoebel's Grove Amusement park in Elysburg, PA.

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Week 14(a): The Nail

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 23:50:27 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos, with the topic "a nail is driven out by another nail."

The Nail

The short-term memory can hold only
five things at a time. A loaf of bread,
a stick of butter, fresh Tasmanian salmon,
brown rice, and a bunch of broccoli. Did you say
Tasmanian? Like the Tasmanian Devil? Now,
that's six. Something will fall out, be it
bread or broccoli or something else beginning with "B."

Like a science project, where you add one
element at a time, in order to see the effects.
Combine polyvinyl alcohol with
borax solution (borax powder and water).
Then add food coloring for fun. Stir
with a craft stick until it pulls away
from the side of the cup. Wait. What size
cup? A 5-ounce cup. But now,
that's six things. Something
will fall out, and the slime will suffer.

Could you learn to do better? Improve
your retention? Perhaps. But only by endless
repetition. Rambling on and on, underneath
your thoughts, the list of things
you can't forget. Or better yet,

write it down. Use a stylus or pen,
or a pencil pared to a point, or
a nubby crayon. Or Sharpie. Or maybe
a paintbrush. Except that
would be six things. And vanquish
all your efforts. Perhaps

you see it now: the secret power
of the five. The way it can keep you
pondering on nothings, awash
with minutiae. Swirling in the surf
of conscious jetsam. Grasping
to recall the faintest whisp
of fleeting thought, the mind
aflame with muted meaning. Only

to have that song you can't unhear
whoosh through your ear canal,
obliterating reminiscence as
it promises to never, ever
give you up.

KFP as a first grader, dressed in a mint button-down shirt and gray vest with a tie. He was ready to play the piano at his first talent show. I've put him on a background of music notes. I just loved the expression of excitement and a touch of impishness in his eyes!

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Week 13: Happiness Pump

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 19:58:35 GMT

This is my entry in LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This week, the topic is "Happiness Pump."

Happiness Pump

On the deck, my jumps stay
grounded. My knees creak
when I sink into squats.
Small pops accompany each
twist (side to side, drive
with your waist, lift the heel
to protect the knee.) I am
cautious with big movements,
to minimize slippage. Urging
my class to "get your knees up,"
"make it big" as my calves
complain, at this, my third
aqua fitness class today.

In the pool, they bounce --
buoyant and carefree. Their legs
push them higher than gravity
allows. Water cushions
their landings, is their
exercise partner for
strength building. Smiles
spread across a myriad of faces.

And I am swept up
by their excitement, egging
them on to greater heights.
My creaks subside as I lead
them through what they later
say is a great workout. Then,
I hobble home.

In this selfie, I'm wearing a wireless mic and a blue floral swimsuit, standing on the pool deck with the empty pool stretching behind me, ready to teach a class.

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Week 12: Happy Detritus

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 22:10:30 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This week's topic is "happy detritus."

Happy Detritus

A unicorn's horn, a paper claw, a wobbly smile
litter the foyer of our apartment building
along with a snowfield of paper bits:
white printer paper, the same kind
I always gave my son to draw when he
was younger. He never left a blizzard
of cuttings on public steps. But during
the shutdown, we drew
a sidewalk chalk masterpiece
of a Picasso-style cat that mewled
up at us for weeks.

Recently, unseen children
left behind this snowscape, along with
the tools of their trade: safety scissors,
uncapped markers, broken crayons.

I brought out a small cardboard box,
collected the scissors, crayons and markers,
and set them on a ledge, along with
the untouched paper and drawings. Leaving
only the pieces too small to pick up,
the confetti of after-thought.

The mess stayed for days, with whirlwinds
of activity leaving more flurries. Once,
I saw the neighbor boy toss markers
into the cardboard box, an impromptu
carnival game. His concentration
transformed the act from mundane
to important. Which is why I've been

so careful to step around these paper
dreams: to pile them neatly away from
footpaths instead of hurling them
into oblivion. Because I, too,
have been a child. And these trails
of paper led me back to:

* wheelbarrows filled with "witches brew" --
made from sticks and herbs and mud,
stirred and simmered for days

* a plywood fort my brother made --
filled with precious artifacts found
in the woods and a muddy album
unearthed somewhere mysterious

* a living room taken over by Barbies --
each piece of furniture a building, with
clothing and items strewn about as my friend
and I traversed this fantasy land on our knees

* imaginary worlds we built from gossamer,
with the wooden beam under my friend's
back stairs becoming an ice-cream counter,
littered with leaf bowls and acorn toppings

That's why, when the crafter and his buddies
asked me to buy a paper claw for a dollar, I only
requested that they demonstrate it. He placed
the origami digit over his finger and growled.
Well-made, I praised him. I dug out a dollar,
in silent thanks for all the adults
who neatly stepped around
my childhood mess.

While this is not the artwork I found in our apartment entryway, it is a bus drawn by another child about the same age, which I found while taking a walk. You can tell from the clumsy pencil outline, the roof much higher than the seats, and the uneven red and blue covering, plus the three wheels, that this was the product of a first-grade imagineer.

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Week 11: Tiger Team

Mon, 29 Sep 2025 23:15:15 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Fate, Week 11. This week's topic is "Tiger Team."

"What should I put on my section of the shield?" one of the Cub Scouts asked me.

"Something that you think represents you or represents the group," I suggested.

As the den leader for a group of first graders, I loved activities that encouraged creativity. Usually, I tried to help them work towards their own ideas rather than just giving them specific suggestions of what to create.

We were working on the Good Knights elective adventure. For those unfamiliar with Scouting America (formerly Boy Scouts USA), "adventures" are thematic units. Upon completing them, the Cub Scouts receive a metal belt loop they can slide onto their uniform belt. The den had voted on Good Knights as one of two electives required to complete the rank of Tiger, along with several other required adventures.

This was the first year of scouting for my son, KFP, and my first year as den leader. I'd shown up at the information meeting at the beginning of the year, because my brother had had such a great time in Scouts. Recently, he'd given me his old Cub Scout shirt and a bunch of Cub Scout hats and neckerchiefs that his son had outgrown. The main reason we attended the info meeting, though, was because the Cub Scout pack was being run by the mother of KFP's good buddy, whom we'll call Connor.

Not only did we walk away from that meeting with KFP registered as a Cub Scout, but I'd somehow volunteered to be the den leader for his den. Since then, it had been a learning experience for us both.

KFP, of course, had learned the many things that Scouting provides to kids: useful real-life skills, camping and outdoor knowledge, and tips on how to be a good neighbor and friend.

I, on the other hand, had learned that I'd better include a hands-on activity if I really wanted these youngsters to listen to any concept I was trying to teach. Although I had purchased the den leader workbook that was supposed to provide me with instructions on teaching each adventure, I soon learned that some of the activities were too involved or too off-topic to get through in a one-hour weekly meeting. And some activities mostly consisted of me, as the adult, talking to them about something like the meaning of the flag.

I spent hours online, researching suggestions from other den leaders and being active in a Facebook group for Cub Scout leaders. And still, I found that some of my well-planned activities just didn't resonate. Like the time we were supposed to draw on construction paper with chalk, and one of the boys spent most of the meeting creating a big, messy pile of chalk dust.

The rewarding moments, where the kids were engaged and seemed to be picking up new concepts, were at constant war with the frustrating moments, when kids were, for example, shooting rubber bands across the room instead of making the wind-up cars I'd planned. Even with the Scoutmaster regularly praising me for helping my den advance towards earning their rank, I still doubted myself and often got a little nervous before the meetings.

My son's journey was a bit different, as he didn't fret about advancement but mostly cared about the social aspect. While KFP already knew Connor, having met when they were babies at library storytime, he was still getting to know the other Tigers. This included one guy, whom we'll call Cyrus, who had joined the pack halfway through the school year.

The Good Knights adventure taught about the ancient concept of chivalry, and the Scouts were encouraged to compare the concepts of chivalry with the Scout Law: "A Scout is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent." They also learned about heraldry, built a castle out of recycled materials (destined to become a favorite hang-out for our kitty Luke), and now, they were making a shield that represented the den.

I'd drawn an outline of a shield and then divided the shield into portions for them to fill in their own way. On the bottom edge and down the center, I'd affixed some beautiful die-cut appliques created by Cyrus's mom, who had her own die-cut machine. I provided the kids with markers, crayons, colored paper, scissors, and glue. They then were asked to fill in their section. But they were all stumped at how to begin.

To get them past their creative block, I asked them to think not just about how they defined themselves but also how they defined their little group. "There are no right answers," I said. "Do whatever you feel fits."

Much to my surprise, they started a conversation about their memories of the den. For them, it came back to one key moment: a "backyard nature hike" we'd taken the night that Cyrus first joined us.

That hike had been part of a different adventure. We were supposed to go outside and use our senses to take notice of the nature around us. Because we met in the evening, and it was fall, we'd stepped outside into the grassy area near the church, only to be met with inky darkness. At first, the kids joked that it was too dark to see any nature.

I told them to listen to the sounds around them. Once they stopped giggling, they could hear a few lonely crickets chirping in the November chill. We could hear the rustle of leaves underfoot.

Our eyes having adjusted, I told them to look around. We saw the silhouettes of trees, backlit by street lights. And then, in a voice suffused with wonder, Cyrus spoke up: "Look up, everyone! The moon!"

Through tree branches, we could see the crescent moon, hanging like a silver smile, beaming down at us. It seemed closer to Earth than usual: as large as a first grader's imagination.

"Wow" was on all of their lips, as they marveled at the moon that seemed to have been hung for their pleasure. When we talked about the experience after going back inside, the moon was the one thing they all remembered.

And now, all these months later, they agreed that that moment had been special. As they worked on their individual sections of the shield, they all chose to include their version of the moon: a symbol of the first moment they came together as a unit.

We'd had plenty of fun experiences as a group before Cyrus joined the den, but in their intuitive way, they'd gotten to the heart of the activity. The moment that defined them as a group was the first time they'd all shared something meaningful. I realized, then, that this journey we were all taking together meant something to me, as well.

The Pack 63 shield, on fading dark blue card stock, with a shield drawn in black marker. Each of four sections is filled with cut and glued paper and a few marker and crayon line drawings. They all include either a crescent moon or, in one case, a full moon.

A couple hours after posting this, I learned that Dave Biche, the assistant Scoutmaster of KFP's troop, died suddenly over the weekend. We had just spent a happy time with him the week before, building LEGO structures at a meeting. He became the primary instructor of Scout material for KFP once he moved up to regular Scouts, and his good humor and unflagging community spirit set a good example for those he led. He will greatly missed. I'd like to dedicate this post to him.

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Week 10: Intrigant

Sun, 21 Sep 2025 23:38:34 GMT

This is my (nearly forgotten) entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. The topic this week was "Intrigant," defined as "a person who makes secret plans to do something illicit or detrimental to someone else.?

What if everything really was someone else's fault? A house fairy, perhaps, whom you had offended by not making proper offerings? Or a neighborhood witch who never forgave you for sledding over her pansies? Whoever it was, it was likely a long time ago, and purely accidental on your part.

But by now, just think of all the damage that has been done. Socks, surreptitiously pulled from the dryer just as they were reaching sentience. Trips and falls too numerous to count, and not to mention fender-benders. Or, going further back, that awkward year when you received both glasses and persistent acne. Clearly, magic was to blame.

So many things lost: wallets, phones, keys, gloves, remotes. A brand-new fuzzy ski hat, while you were wearing it! Almost as if an invisible hand plucked it from your head, in order to make a paired set with the beloved angora sweater, which disappeared on a ski trip.

You may have dreamt once that someone really did live under your bed: a wizened creature that grabbed your foot and woke you up. If you did, you dismissed the experience as a foot cramp, but was it, instead, a glimpse behind the curtain? How often have you felt like something was lurking in a dark corner, only to investigate and find the spot vacated?

And lately, the interloper has grown more insidious. How else would deadlines skip your memory, despite your efforts to track them? How else would you call somebody "Charla" when her name is clearly "Cindy"? What's next? Your understanding of the world? Your grasp of language itself?

It's time you asked yourself the important questions: How long has this imp followed me? How has it traveled with me for so long, from address to address, life change to life change? Why do more than half of accidents take place close to home?

And the most important question of all: How can I stop it?

The fact that you've even read this far indicates that you can feel it in your bones. You know that something is off: that an interloper has intruded into your daily life, making mischief of your well-laid plans; curdling your milk.

You may consider the answer to be simple: leaving out a saucer of honey for the fae folk. That might have worked once, a long time ago. But what's the compound interest on a childhood slight? How can you reconcile after so long, when you have no idea what you did or whom you offended?

Do not despair. A simple thought exercise will help. Ponder on the question, and the answer will present itself, like a barely whispered offering. Clear your mind and let the thoughts come in.

That moment from childhood that you can't forget, no matter how dearly you'd like to? Perhaps the time you peed yourself while playing hide-and-seek, then hid the underwear in the hamper, not realizing your mother would find them? Or the time you drank a glass of milk too fast and horked it out your nose? That moment is not what it seems. It is hiding something.

But how, you might ask, do I dismiss this persistent memory? Simple. Forgive yourself, like the adult version of you would easily dismiss such a misstep from a beloved child. Forgive yourself, and the memory that has acted as a cloak for the real trouble will dissipate.

There! What do you see? Shimmering in the gloaming of your memory? A shape, a form, a moment revealing itself to you. You will know immediately what that moment means: you should have been kinder; you should have been respectful; you should have apologized; you should have forgiven another. Someone or something wronged, in a time nearly forgotten. That shimmering shape will probably not be anyone you can name or even completely remember. But let the memory grow brighter until you can see it as clearly as possible.

And now what? Simple. Ask the memory for peace. Tell it you are sorry; that you didn't understand. That you will strive to be more conscious of your impacts as you move about the world. The more sincere your words, the more effective they will be. Then, you will feel a warmth growing inside your chest as you purify the bond that has clung to you until this very moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Move on. The very next step will be your own.

This message brought to you by the International House Fairy Council.

Buildings and trees silhouetted at dusk with a few golden windows of light.

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Week 9: Edgelord

Thu, 11 Sep 2025 00:41:59 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol, Wheel of Chaos. This week's topic was "Edgelord."

On a daily basis, I find myself stuck in rush-hour traffic. The slower we're creeping, the more some drivers push the limits. Anything can be a lane to those people as they weave around other cars like they're playing Gran Turismo. Hey, if you have to roll a couple tires on the median for a second, at least you've still got two on the asphalt.

Yesterday, I was sitting at a notoriously long red light, only about half a block from the YMCA where I was supposed to be teaching an aqua fitness class in 10 minutes. I'll admit that my frustration was about to boil over as I could eyeball the parking lot but couldn't just apparate there. I had no choice but to wait, tapping along to a song on the radio and trying to convince myself that I didn't care about the clock tick-tick-ticking closer to the time I was supposed to be on the deck in my swimsuit, leading the warm-up.

The SUV to my right apparently was feeling something similar. But in their case, their brain appeared to be connected directly to their gas pedal. The more antsy this driver got, the more the vehicle crept forward. First, a foot or so. Then another foot. Then half a car length.

Inured to this pressure, the light resolutely remained red.

I tried to release my stress with a big back stretch, palms on the ceiling as my foot remained glued on the brake. Not so for the person next to me. Inch by inch, foot by foot, they worked their way into the absolute center of the intersection, which only added to my irritation.

"It's RED!!!!" I shouted fruitlessly. I doubt the driver heard me over the blood boiling in their own ears. I imagined their foot vibrated with agitation, held back by this completely unfair sentry.

Just about then, the traffic coming the opposite direction got their light change: allowing them to turn left, which took them into the direction of the hapless creeper. The driver had no choice but to remain motionless as cars swerved around them, giving them the one-finger salute.

When the light finally turned, I drove forward half a block and turned into the YMCA parking lot with relief. The other driver dashed forward, just in time to get caught up in the next knot of traffic.

Naturally.

As I found a parking space, I mused to myself, "I guess that's what happens to you when you're an edgelord."

Although this shot was taken at sunset, with pink-and-gray clouds lifting above a band of gold, this was my best image of a red traffic light.

I'll be honest: I had no idea what to do with this topic until this incident. And then, a flash of satori, as I said to myself, "If that's not an edgelord, I don't know what is!"

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Week 8: Infrastructure

Mon, 01 Sep 2025 22:10:54 GMT

This is my entry for Week 8 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. The topic this week was "Infrastructure."

Infrastructure

And begin again.

First is leg day: building power
in my hamstrings, glutes, and quads.
Drenched, I push through lunges,
deadlifts, and squats. My calves
tighten with double-dumbbell raises.
My hamstrings vibrate as I walk.

Next, chest and back day: increasing
support for upper body movement.
Exhaling with control, I squeeze out
chest presses, rows, and pushups.
My pecs and lats fortified, a muscular
bird cage around my heart.

Then comes shoulder day: buttressing
my deltoids, my traps, even
my rotator cuffs. The smallest tissues,
capable of heaving more than
expected. Over time, annealing
into trimmer lines, lightening
my perceived load as I carry groceries.

Fourth, another leg day: revisiting
that power center, so important
for everyday tasks. Balance
and strength; posterior chain of
hamstring, glutes, and lower back.
Today, like every day, underpinned
by core: toning abs and obliques,
anchoring all my efforts to sit,
stand and move about.

Finally, arm day: bolstering
biceps and triceps. Curls in
several positions, kick-backs,
tricep presses, and dips. Building up
stamina for lifting and carrying.
I hug myself to feel the hardening.

A week's work to check off: invigoration
and triumph, cruising into two days of renewal.

Me a week ago, making a muscle. I put it through a filter from the Voila app to make it look like a pop art painting.

Over the past year, I suffered a number of physical setbacks that led to me getting out of the habit of lifting weights. Despite all the aqua fitness classes I teach, I noticed that I was losing my muscle tone and feeling bloated and fatigued. At the beginning of summer, I challenged myself to get back into it, telling my husband so that he could support me. Every day when I finish my weightlifting workout, he gives me two thumbs up. While that doesn't seem to be much incentive, it's been enough to spur me to six weeks of regular workouts, beginning my seventh week today!

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Week 7 : Oxytocin Loop

Fri, 22 Aug 2025 11:36:06 GMT

My intersection partner this week was muchtooarrogant. I'm indebted to him for his clever idea of what to do with the two prompts. You can find his entry here: https://muchtooarrogant.dreamwidth.org/163119.html. It probably works best if you read mine first and then his, but either order would work.

Maybe it had been 100 years; maybe a day. First, there was the bloody mess of birth; much of those 50 hours lost to her short-term memory, due to brain fog. Then, in an elongated moment, she was holding him in her arms, admiring the perfection of his tiny body; the miracle of her body producing the perfect nutriment for him to be nurtured and grow. Then followed endless hours of quiet bonding, as she tuned out all else and focused on this one life. This life that she, somehow, had made.

The odds had not been in their favor. She hadn't even known she was still capable of reproducing. Up until this point, her adult lifespan had been a nomadic one: traveling and relocating, living minimally, existing on the outskirts of various cultures, ready always to leave. She felt she was always observing life from a distance; too cautious to embrace any particular homestead, any one lifestyle completely.

For so many years, she had enjoyed marveling at new ways of being: new cultures which inevitably built their food tastes, music, and artwork off their location. From sonorous reed flutes in water-based villages sustained by fish dishes; to bone drums and dried gourds in arid towns flanked by sage brushes and sustained by spicy meats and ground corn. And that was only here, on Earth.

Before that, she could scarcely recall the litany of places: some with atmospheres burning with iridescent gases; some with icy-blue mountain peaks. Some had been inhabited, and some had not, save herself and her traveling companion, her helpmate. They had known each other since they'd been mere offspring, jumping from star to star on their people's interstellar journey. In her youth, she had not understood why her people were running; only that generations had been fleeing from an unnamable threat. Or perhaps just unnamable to those so many ages into the flight. When history becomes myth, who can really say what they know?

She and her mate, Zygon, had volunteered when the elders had asked for bonded pairs to spread out across the galaxy. Doing so, they reasoned, would expand the possibilities of their race's survival. And her mate had relished the adventure, always tuning into interstellar chatter to gauge the safest places to travel: letting her know when the winds were shifting and they must move on.

But Zygon had not survived the last jump: some sort of molecular anomaly encountered as they'd burned through this atmosphere. Forcing her into the only functioning escape capsule, her partner had stayed with the flaming ship and met their fate in a smoking crater. And so, she had been alone here, until she discovered her miraculous secret and met her life's true love. She'd named him Galen, after an old Earth name meaning "healer" because his birth had unleashed improbable waves of hope. "I am Etherea," she told him when he'd been born. "I am your mother, and I love you very, very much."

Nothing mattered more than this small being. Now that he'd grown large enough to control his appendages, she spent hours every day teaching him the things he must know. First, and most importantly, she helped him master transmutation. For, marooned as they were in an arid landscape, they could not hope to hide forever. She had found a deserted farm to inhabit, and she could grow sustenance for them. But to do so, she had to work outside during the daytime. Even on the quiet of Alamo Road, passersby occasionally slipped by on the concrete road. She knew the rules of going unnoticed, and even a faint glimpse of something unusual could make someone put on the brakes to go back and check.

With his elastic young mind, Galen learned quickly, soon able to emulate whatever beings he found himself nearby. At first, he would miss key details, leading to mishaps like a furry rattlesnake, or a purple and yellow-spotted gecko. He once disconcerted a herd of elk by transmuting into a fair pass for a fellow but making his antlers sparkle. Each time he made such a mistake, his gurgling laughter made it hard for her to be firm. But she knew she had to be unyielding to impress upon him the gravity of his ability to blend in.

Along with her ship, she had lost her communications device. Even if she'd had the energy to monitor the transmissions as closely as Zygon had, she knew that without it, she was completely cut off from interstellar news. Not that she had missed it much. To her and Galen, time was measured by this one hot sun, anchored in the sky as if it were the only one she'd ever known.

Each evening, she would take advantage of the dimming light to walk about with her small charge. In a wheeled carriage, he could be cloaked under a blanket if he was feeling mercurial. She knew enough from her years around these inhabitants to know they would not violate that sanctity of a blanket cover if she only told them that he was resting.

One of her favorite places to visit was the Alamo Springs Cafe, with its simple foods, checked plastic tablecloths, and rock terrace. On warm evenings, she would ask for an outdoor table, rocking Galen in his carriage and sneaking him tidbits under the blanket. If she could only trust him not to commit such missteps as growing an extra appendage in the middle of a meal, he could have sat in one of the small, wooden stools with railings used here for toddlers.

If she timed it correctly, they could walk the short distance to Old Tunnel State Park to watch the winged mammalian species as they flittered in and out of the titular tunnel. She'd read that mother bats returned there to raise their pups, and she was delighted to be surrounded by others who understood her maternal drive. Much safer, too, she reasoned, than the Itty Bitty Read at the Pioneer Memorial Library in nearby Fredericksburg. Galen was unlikely to be able to control himself for that long, and she did not think the other offspring would accept a multicolored boy.

Tonight, after they shared a grilled cheese at the cafe, Etherea pushed her son down the rutted shoulder to her favorite place, just in time for the twilight bat migration. But something felt different this evening. Her time on Earth had not dimmed her perceptions; more so, she felt with an extraordinary certainty that, for the first time in Galen's lifetime, they were not alone of their kind.

Was it a stray flicker in the amber sky, hidden by a partially obscuring cloud? Or was it simply a murmur in the back of her consciousness, a tingling on her skin? She could not fathom it any more than she could figure out how to explain this feeling to the only being who mattered, the little one who had thrown his blanket aside to gaze with undisguised awe at the leather wings, fluttering by in dark clouds overhead as a ring of spinning lights grew ever closer.

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Week 6: A Fake Friendship

Thu, 07 Aug 2025 04:10:57 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This week's topic was "Re-imagine another contestant's entry." My piece is an alternate view of halfshellvenus's piece, "Cursecraft."

The Evil Queen had a name, but nobody ever asked her for it. She supposed they were too terrified: bobbing their heads and mumbling, "Your Majesty" before they could be zapped. It was just as well. Ursula Payne was a fine name, but a bit too much on the long, warty nose, to be honest.

And long her nose was, which was fitting for her elevated position. In fact, her schnoz had gotten longer over time, just as she'd turned a deeper shade of green, which changed shades with her mood. She turned lime green when in good spirits and acid green when she was in a foul temper. Right now, she was a neutral fern color.

Like her nose, her skin tone was enhanced with a glamour spell. She used it to make herself look perfectly evil. It saved her hours of hair and makeup, and it gave her an excuse to send her hairstylist to the oubliette.

As powerful as she was, Ursula often grew bored. She hadn't had to struggle for existence in such a long time that she couldn't remember what it was like. Her former schoolmate, Helga McTwittle, reminded her what those days had been like: scraping for every penny, hiring herself out for magical grunt work. I mean, Helga created potions for talking animals and magical creatures! Ursula shuddered at the thought.

Ursula lived in a fortress made of black galaxy granite, with accents of obsidian. While she could have whipped it up herself with a fabricate spell, she'd enchanted an entire village with a mind-control spell instead. Suddenly, they had all hit upon the idea of creating the darkest-looking castle ever made. They'd spent years planning the structure, hewing the stone, and heaving it into place, proud of their work. Proud, that is, until she finally released them from the spell and let them see the dreadful result of their labor, as well as the dastardly inhabitant who had taken possession.

That had made her laugh for several days, an evil peel that sounded off the bat-shaped turrets and bounced into the now-cowering valley below.

Once, she'd gotten so bored that Ursula had transfigured one of the village children into a mouse, but the mouse had still acted human, walking on its hind legs and playing hopscotch. She wasn't entirely certain the child had noticed the change.

The most tedious aspect of her reign had to be the weekly audience with those entreating favors. They would line the hallway that led to her throne room, murmuring anxiously. When they reached her, they would whine, "Please accept this fatted calf to remove the blight from our fields." "Would you kindly lift the mouse spell from my daughter so that she can return to school?" "Would you accept this golden comb and diamond tiara to release my brother, the hairdresser, from the oubliette?" Yawn.

The only thing she hated more than boredom was whining. She fulfilled most of the requests just to make the people go away. But to keep them on their toes, once in a while, she augmented their troubles instead.

"You made my goiter bigger! I look like I've got a second head now!"

"Well, that's what you get for sniffing the roses in the foyer."

"But they smell so good!" the supplicant whined.

"Too bad," Ursula sneered. "You didn't have to sound like a rutting moose while you were smelling them."

The steady stream of petitioners didn't originate only from her magical misdeeds. She fielded a fair number of requests from people who didn't understand how nature works. Sure, she could make the snow go away, but it might take a couple months, she'd tell them. They'd go away, mystified, but they'd sing her praises when spring came.

Occasionally, she met with someone who must have been sent there on a dare. "Can you turn me into a bear? I want to scare my little brother until he pees."

So, she vanished his clothing. "There, you're bare." He turned beet-red and ran down the crowded hallway as fast as he could go while shielding himself. Ursula laughed so hard she peed herself a little.

No matter how mercurial she could be, the crowds kept coming. Perhaps she shouldn't have magicked the castle gargoyles into softly humming songs of promised riches and wonders all day long. She couldn't even remember why she'd done that, but she thought it might have been to distract attention away from the ginger mermaid down by the ocean's edge who sang simpering songs in the moonlight. Dreadful.

Every once in a while, the serfs gave her something truly useful in return, like the woodsman who agreed to do away with that pale imitation of beauty who was shacking up with a bunch of dwarves. He might have succeeded if not for Ursula's erstwhile friend, Helga.

After he returned with the heart of a pig, instead of the heart of the brunette, Ursula had forced him to drink a time-tracer potion which had caused him to relate the previous 24 hours in detail. That's how she'd learned about his dilly-dallying at a very familiar-sounding house made of cookies and candy. After that encounter, he'd gone off-course, and Ursula knew whom to blame. Well, that could never stand. Who was Helga to confound the orders of the Evil Queen?

The next day, Ursula took action. She left the castle, disguised as a princess, and traveled into the woods to Helga's house. Once she was there, though, she couldn't quite think what to do. So she made up a story about being bored with the life of a princess and demanded that Helga turn her into a dragon.

When Helga aimed a transfiguration spell at her, Ursula fought it back with a silent counter spell, modifying Helga's spell enough so that she only turned into a tiny salamander. Helga gulped stupidly.

During her subsequent tries, Ursula launched a protective bubble around herself, so that Helga's efforts had no effect until Ursula morphed herself back into her princess form. Fortunately, the protective bubble was still intact when Helga hit her with a forgetting spell. That would have ruined all the fun.

Her confidence shattered, Helga began to mess up on her own quite royally. The peasants gossiped incessantly about how the witch in the woods only produced a pathetic number of daggers for the rat king when he demanded an army. And now the kingdom was plagued with human-sized nutcrackers, lording about the place.

To her delight, Ursula heard that Helga had become worse than a laughingstock: she was simply overlooked. A nonentity, as harmless as a white rabbit in a waistcoat.

That will teach her to stand in the way of the Evil Queen, Ursula thought.

As far as she was concerned, the matter was closed. She'd had her bit of fun, and Helga had learned her lesson. It had given Ursula an excuse to try on a new glamour, and she'd liked it so much that she'd taken the Princess character on the road. She developed a habit of popping in at balls, wooing princes, and dashing off before they got her name. As she fled, she'd leave a trinket behind for them to obsess over, and then transfigure herself into a hag so that she could sit outside the castle walls and listen to them swoon.

In fact, Ursula had become so highly entertained with her new games that she completely forgot about Helga until the silly thing showed up with a basket of fresh cookies. They smelled divine.

Immediately, Ursula's ire fell away, and she turned a lovely sea green. One bite of the dark chocolate cookies with crushed peppermint, and Ursula remembered the days of their youth, when the two of them would trade spells and cake recipes. Maybe she'd been too harsh on her?

Ursula should have known better. No sooner did she have a mouthful of cookie than she found herself with Helga's wand shoved in her face. For an instant, she felt the terrible pain of having her magic pulled out of her very cells.

Acting without thinking, she grabbed the magic mirror next to her throne and called out "Reciproco." The mirror trembled as it reflected the spell's force back to the traitor. Her old friend's magic enveloped Ursula in a twinkling cloud. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she absorbed it into herself.

She snorted at Helga. "Nice try," she told her. For a moment, she contemplated crushing Helga to crumbs, or at least giving her a goiter. But when she saw the pathetic woman trembling in her crusty boots, she was hit with an unfamiliar emotion. Was this what pity felt like?

With a snarl, she dismissed the diminished witch but held onto the cookies.

The experience ruined Ursula's good mood. She no longer went dancing with princes or tried to beguile upstart wannabes into eating foul apples. Instead, she found herself staring for long moments out her attic window, far across the fields towards the forest.

Once it had forgiven her for subjecting it to a direct magical attack, the Magic Mirror allowed her a glimpse of her former friend. Helga sat around, deflated, apparently without even the energy to rub toads on her face; her complexion was clearing up for the first time since adolescence.

Why on earth did Ursula care?

When she'd finished the last of the cookies, Ursula made a plan. She couldn't disguise herself as the Princess again, because there was too much risk of running into a former suitor and getting one's foot shoved into a glass shoe.

Instead, she made herself into the least fearsome thing she could contemplate: a young deer. While her original plan had been to get close enough to squish some of Helga's magic back into her when she wasn't paying attention, she couldn't help sampling a bit of chocolate icing from one of the eaves.

The next thing she knew, Helga was shooing her off with a dish towel. Really? How pathetic is that? Oh, poor thing. Was this... compassion?

Ursula found herself speaking honestly for the first time in ages. She may have looked like a deer, but it was her words as she told the witch how much she loved her baked goods. Before she could stop herself, she'd urged her to start a bakery.

And wouldn't you know it? Helga did. Before long, she was winning rave reviews from talking frogs and princesses alike. Watching from afar, Ursula was pleased to see the business prosper. Soon, the villagers began bringing these prized baked goods to Ursula as tributes, and she couldn't be happier.

Every once in a while, she even disguised herself as a child so that she could taste them fresh out of the oven, offering to do chores in return. For that delightful first bite of rich cocoa and sugar, she'd even gladly sweep the floor.

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Week 5: Geeky Good Wishes

Sun, 27 Jul 2025 15:15:49 GMT

This is my entry for Week 5 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Fortune. The topic is "Toi toi toi," which is an actor's alternative to saying, "Good luck."

My swim bag on my back, I'm about to step out the door to teach an aqua fitness class when I notice my husband at the computer, stepping into some sort of virtual fracas involving multiple players in armor, several monsters, and a towering dragon, jaws spewing fire.

"Have fun storming the castle!" I chirp as I step through the apartment door.

My husband responds, grimly, "Thanks." I can hear his fingers clacking furiously on the keys as the door closes behind me. It's part of our love language to quote "The Princess Bride."

While I haven't technically performed onstage since my last improv class about 17 years ago, I've spent enough time with actors and stage folk over the years to have adopted their prohibition towards saying "Good luck." In fact, even writing the phrase in this essay feels a little sketchy. Excuse me while I knock vigorously on our wooden coffee table to negate the bad juju.

Of course, being part of a nerdy family -- with parents who were proud to watch the original "Star Trek" when it first aired -- and having married a fellow geek, we often draw our felicitations from our shared culture.

"May the Force be with you!" I tell our teenage son. Slathered in sunscreen and bug spray and wearing his wide-brimmed "Australian outback" hat, he exits the car to join the other youth counselors, or "Green Shirts," for the first day of Cub Scout summer day camp. Given the large intersection between geeks and those involved in Scouting, I wouldn't be surprised if other Green Shirts are sent off similarly. I think it's safe to say that many of the Green Shirts -- and the campers alike -- have seen at least one film in the "Star Wars" series.

I'm not much of a "Hunger Games" fan, but I've seen the first movie, and my son has read the first book. So, I could envision an instance where I would wish him, “May the odds be ever in your favor.” That does, however, seem a bit dark, given the sorts of conditions and challenges faced by the young tributes in the series. I'm not sending him off to kill other teens in the hopes of being the sole survivor, after all.

If our son had turned out to be sports-minded, we might have found ourselves encouraging him to "Leave it all on the field" or "Knock it out of the park!" Or even -- gasp -- the mathematically questionable phrase, "Give it a hundred and ten percent!" But our son followed in his parents' geeky footsteps and, instead of joining the baseball team, became a proud member of the high school robotics team. At their matches, they shout in unison, "L-O-V-E, we love our drive team!" Love triumphs over luck any day.

A much more likely send-off for my son would be "Don't forget your towel!" The most appropriate time to use this benediction, of course, would have been while he was leaving for his weeklong overnight summer Scout camp. Of course, as fans of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" know, this phrase implies much more than the ability to take a shower, because in that universe, there's nothing that ensures survival quite as effectively as knowing where your towel is.

If anyone in our immediate family had taken Latin instead of French, we might have gravitated towards the pseudo-Latin phrase “Fortunatus Maximus!” Apparently, that phrase is especially amusing to Latin students, because it doesn't exist in classic Latin. But of course, any English-speaking person will grok it as meaning "great fortune." It's one of those geek jokes that only make sense to an exclusive sub-group (and anyone who's had it explained to them).

Along the same lines would be chemistry jokes, preferred by chemists, science teachers, and pretty much all dads everywhere. Such a person might see me off to teach an after-school science club by wishing me, "May you always find the SOLUTION to your problems." I could see my husband, a former chemist, saying this and then fixing me with a broad smile as he awaited my reaction. (See what I did there?)

But the most often-used geeky phrase conveying good wishes originated with "Star Trek." The Vulcan phrase "Live long and prosper" has become the go-to phrase for a multitude of uses and has been so prevalent in popular culture that the Vulcan salute can be immediately understood to convey that wish. I'd certainly rather hear "Live long and prosper" than have someone tell me to "break a leg" or "knock 'em dead."

And while we're still several years away from seeing our son off to college, I can imagine myself leaving our son in front of his dorm room and bidding him adieu with a Vulcan salute, which, as the child of geeks, he would know conveyed every good wish that I could muster.

KFP in his "Australian outback" hat and wearing a "Star Wars" t-shirt. This photo is two years old, so the shirt no longer fits and he's now taller than me! He's still rocking the hat, however.

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Week 2: Figure of Speech

Sun, 20 Jul 2025 20:56:17 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Fate. This week's topic is "Figure of Speech."

My aching legs demanding a rest, I plopped down onto a low, smooth wall. My son and his cousins were about to ride the Zenith, a hubless Ferris wheel with a steampunk look inside the Mega Parc, an amusement park in the Galeries de la Capitale, a very large mall in Quebec City, Canada.

Just as my butt hit the seat, my sister exclaimed, "You're not supposed to sit there!"

"You're not?" I asked, with audible distress.

She pointed to a sticker affixed to the bench that said something in French and included a stick figure apparently falling off a bench, with a red line through it. My exhausted mind agreed with her that it was an odd way of telling people not to sit there. I don't know: maybe the surface was occasionally slippery, in colder times of year? Maybe if you sat there, you were in the drop zone of the Zenith and could get a face-full of whatever careened off the Ferris wheel?

Fig. 1: A stick figure sits on a badly-drawn rectangular bench, leaning to the right with a hand reaching down. A red circle with a slash through it overlays the awkward scene.

With a sigh, I heaved myself back into a roughly vertical position and followed her to the gate where our kids would exit once the ride ended, so that we could crane our necks and experience the ride vicariously.

At the close of the ride, we met up with my husband, The Gryphon, who was comfortably seated on one of the prohibited smooth ledges.

"You're not allowed to sit on those," I informed him.

"No," he said. "You are not allowed to stick your hand over the ledge when the Zamboni is in use."

I finally tried to grok the French in the sign and realized that he was probably right. It mentioned something about "mains" (hands) and "pieds" (feet), as well as "Zamboni." The enticing ledge, it turns out, was just above an oval ice-skating track, the Patinarium, that wound around the amusement park area.

As if to prove the point, the Zamboni, painted a dull copper and encrusted with decorative gears in keeping with the steampunk theme, slid by on the ice, the operator giving us a wry smile.

Throughout our experiences in Quebec City, deep in the French-speaking part of Canada, we found that most signs communicated messages in more than one way. Either they'd be in both French and English, or they'd be in French with a visual symbol. Some of those, however, were so unique they were hard for us Americans to parse.

This was only the third day of our family vacation in Quebec City, but the previous day had involved hours of walking as we visited the Lower Town (Basse-Ville) shops and then took the Funicular to take a near-vertical ride up to Upper Town (Haute-Ville) to view Le Chateau Frontenac, an historic hotel built in 1893 that looks like an old-world castle.

On our ride up, we noted a sign so important it used three ways of communicating: English ("No leaning"), French ("Pas de penchement") and an image of a stick figure seemingly being way too relaxed against a vertical surface, with a line through it. The sign was stuck on the front and back glass doors of the steel-and-glass box we were riding to the neighborhood on the Cap Diamant cliff above us.

Fig. 2: A stick figure leans against a vertical line representing a wall. The stick figure has one knee bent, one leg straight, and a bent elbow to look awfully relaxed, considering how deep the fall would be on the other side of the glass. There's a circle and red line through the image.

That one was easy. Also easy, the image of an enterprising stick figure, its chunky arms and legs askew on a railing, indicating someone (most likely a child) climbing. Of course, the requisite red circle and slash indicated this was an action not to emulate.

This particular sticker appeared on the top deck of the Quebec City-Levis Ferry, next to a similar barred railing. My sister pointed this one out to me as our families, along with our dad and our brother's daughter, sat on benches near the railing as we waited for the ferry to take off. We agreed it's probably an ongoing problem there, as children are basically monkeys.

Fig. 3: A stick figure who looks small like a child has the right arm and leg uplifted on a set of bars, with the left leg resting on the lowest bar and the left hand grabbing the left post. There's a red circle and line through this ill-advised action.

But perhaps the most confusing sign greeted us shortly after arriving in Canada, in the dark driving through rain. The Gryphon was already exhausted from our day-long drive from the Philadelphia area when a thunderstorm hit in the middle of our dinner stop at a small restaurant near Lake George in New York.

By the time we reached the border, the rain was petering out, so that we passed through customs in a lull. The misty rain that dribbled down afterwards was only enough to produce rainbows in the twilight sky.

Immediately, the difference in signs became clear. Most of them were in French, with images to emphasize the message. A few were only images, such as one that made my husband exclaim, "What does that mean? Are planes going to be landing on the highway?"

Our son, KFP, a whiz at looking up information on his phone, soon had the answer. "No, Dad. It means there may be low-flying aircraft in this area."

My husband breathed a sigh of relief before adding, "Wait. What?"

Fortunately, we didn't get buzzed by any planes during our journey.

Fig. 4: A silhouetted plane flies over a diagonal strip of two-lane highway, on a yellow diamond background.

As we wound through the city this past week, we encountered locals and fellow tourists who spoke a variety of languages. Most of the time, we ended up conversing in English, although sometimes a mix of English and French. Nearly all of the adults in our group had taken French in high school or college, but it had been decades since then, and lack of use had made us rusty. My son had taken two years of French but often faltered with very simple phrases. Fortunately, the Canadians were kind to us and changed languages when they saw us struggling.

Once, I spoke with our hotel maid, who spoke only French and Spanish. My sister's husband was the only person in our group who knew Spanish. Unfortunately, he wasn't present, so she and I bumbled along: her in French, me in English and French, both of us making hand gestures to indicate what we were trying to communicate.

By and large, the people we encountered were "super" (just like the word "super," but said with a French accent). They saw our large group of combined families -- mine, my sister's, my brother's, and our dad -- which ranged in age from 10 to 82, and they just wanted to help us, you know?

We were "friends" to both our concierge and the tour guide at our last trip, to La Citadel de Quebec, a fortress on a hill that houses the Royal 22nd Regiment, the only French-speaking regiment in Canada today.

"Come this way, friends," the tour guide, Beatrice, would say, with her wide smile. And we'd follow her anywhere, even into a jail cell.

Certainly, French Canadians -- or the Quebecois, as they call themselves -- understand better than most the importance of communication. The fact that languages are interchangeable, as long as eventually, you get your point across.

I contemplated all these things as we left Canada, passing again the yellow diamond plane signs and imagining a pilot flying low overhead. "Goodbye, friend," he'd call to us. "A bientot!" ("See you soon!")

A rainbow greeted us in Canada, through brightly blue-gray skies above a yellow and green field with far distant white buildings.

The view from the Funicular: a strip of mostly old-looking buildings in the lower left, in tans and grays with splashes of orange, yellow, and red. In the middle ground stretches the wide, brackish brown St. Lawrence River, atop of which floats the white and blue ferry. On the far distant banks is a misty glimpse of an expanse of green and small buildings, which is the city of Levis (pronounced "Leh-VEE").

A cannon and a view of the outer wall of the Citadelle de Quebec, a fortress in Quebec City. At the right of the image, the cannon is heavy, black, and pointed skyward. A brick pathway and a snaky asphalt road lead diagonally from the bottom left corner to the middle distance. Bright green grass surrounds the brick path and alongside the road. In the far distance is the stone wall, seemingly small in this photo but actually at least 30 feet high.

The Chateau de Fronterac, seen from the Citadelle. Rising out of a sea of smaller stone and brick buildings which are interspersed with trees, the Chateau dominates the skyline. Its peaked roofs with green tiles evoke a European castle. The most impressive feature is the red brick tower, with its black-tiled roof, that rises near the front of the building, rectangular with a peaked roof and multiple stone spires.

My son, my husband, and me on the deck of the ferry between Quebec City and Levis. My sister took this selfie, but I've cropped her out, for privacy reasons. Behind us is the white railing that sported the sign, along with other blue benches, which would soon be occupied, and more white painted railings above the captain's cabin. Barely visible, hanging over the cabin, is the Quebec flag, with its fields of blue, cross of white and white fleur de lis.

I'd like to thank The Gryphon for suggesting this way of approaching the prompt, as we were driving home from our journey and my brain and body were exhausted.

As you might have guessed, I had to draw the "no reaching" sign myself, since I couldn't find anything similar. The other signs I found online, but they are almost identical to what we saw. If I'd known I would have been writing this entry, I would have photographed all the fun signs I saw!

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Week 3: Ecco

Wed, 09 Jul 2025 20:48:29 GMT

This is my entry for this week of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. The prompt this week is "Ecco," which is an Italian word defined as, essentially, "presenting a person, thing, or idea and inviting you to perceive it at the very moment it appears," similar to the English word "behold."

Behold

I peer into your dark bronze eyes as you, swaddled
in a panda blanket, gaze back. We are both
enthralled with this novelty: being apart
from one another. Our bodies separate, at last.
Your heart pounding in your own tiny chest, no longer
tapping time with mine. Able, at last, to see
the origin of the voice you've heard
echoing through blood so many months. My own heart

now suffused with warmth and wellbeing
which I feebly label "love." But Valentine sentiment
pales beside this affection, which encapsulates
not just tenderness but a deep
knowing; a twinning of cells.
Your joy, my joy; your pain
mine, as well.

So many years later -- an eon of growth --
you may wonder why I still
beam at you; why I intone
your name so sweetly in the mornings
as I coach you to disentangle your long limbs
from swaddling blankets. Why I still sing
good morning to you, as if the nectar
of each day was worth savoring. Even now,
with your deep voice, your wry humor,
your eyes behind speckled glasses,
I still see you as I saw you then.
In breathless wonder.

- July 9, 2025

Inspired by eeyore_grrl, I've recorded a video of myself reading this poem.

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Week 2: If It's Any Consolation

Sun, 29 Jun 2025 21:54:47 GMT

This is my entry for week two of LJ Idol-Wheel of Chaos. The topic this week is "If It's Any Consolation."

This poem borrows from experiences over the past several years of both me and my son. I'll leave it up to you to figure out which is which.

If It's Any Consolation

You'll get a great story out of this
In this light, you can hardly see it
A little spackle will hide the damage
You can cross that worry off now
That's why we have insurance

You proved you're not a robot
Failure means opportunity
Nobody gets A's all the time
You'll learn from this experience
Perfect is boring

You're fitter than many people your age
You have amazing balance
Muscle weighs more than fat
Being "fluffy" makes you relatable
You're healthier now than 20 years ago

You should be proud you put yourself out there
For that brief moment, you had some good times
You both wanted different things
Next time, you'll know better
The heart is a muscle; it gets stronger

Feeling grief means you've felt love
Her heart will always live inside your memory
You're surrounded by reminders of her
You see her in the mirror
She never doubted you

At least you have answers now
They don't want anyone else
You haven't lost anything; you're still friends
Love confuses us all
You got a great song out of it

Art makes pain worthwhile

I find it both ironic and perfect that right now, my Pandora station is regaling me with "You Do" by Aimee Mann, a song that's a perfect fit for this sentiment.

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LJ Idol, Coming Soon!

Wed, 11 Jun 2025 20:11:12 GMT

After urging from a writer friend, I've decided to cast my hat into the ring for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos.

Bring it on!

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Poetry: New Year's Resolution

Tue, 25 Feb 2025 21:52:42 GMT

Picked up a book of daily poetry prompts for myself back in January. Finally used it. Good to flex the writing muscles.

Here is the poem, for those who can't read what a friend once called my "crazy grandmother" handwriting.

1 - New Year's Resolution
Write daily. Lock down the slamming
heart, anxious breath. Calm
the frenzied mind and
focus. Ignore twinges of muscle ache,
nudges from tasks undone. The gaze
that wonders to mounds of dry
grass, yellowed by harsh days. Weathered
roofs, scarcely able to contain
another storm, wind blast, torrent. How
to tune all the heartache out? How
to turn it from lurid to lyrical?
Or is that even the point? Perhaps,
yet, to open gates and let in
the words you'd least like
to accept. To witness, to set
into permanency all that you see?

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Havertown, Not Flavortown

Fri, 04 Oct 2024 22:54:48 GMT

This is my entry for LJ Idol, mini season 2024 (woot-woot!), week 11 or some such. The topic this week is "Haver." And by rights, I should have had it written sometime yesterday, the original deadline, but I couldn't miss my chance at pulling another "Broadcast News" and getting it in at the last possible minute.

I live in Havertown, Pennsylvania, where the "a" sound is like the word "have," like HAVE-er-town. Try telling that to Google Maps, though, which insists on mispronouncing it to rhyme with "Flavortown."

I bet if I lived in Flavortown, I'd always wear all the latest '80s fashions and know cool hip-hop dances. Or else I'd be a Guy Fieri wannabe and would spike my blonde hair and wear flame-colored bowling shirts. (Eww.)

Living here has its advantages. We have a great school district, which in the interest of confusing Google further, is named after the township we're in: Haverford School District (also pronounced like the "a" in "have," but for some reason, Google pronounces this word correctly).

Besides boasting one of the coolest high school freshmen ever (my son, KFP), the school district can brag about its unique mascot, being one of the only in the nation to have a car. Yes, you read that right. We are the Haverford Fords, which incidentally is the exact same mascot as nearby Haverford College. Quelle coincidence, eh?

The high school teams literally have a Ford Model T as a mascot, and before you ask, they don't have anybody in costume portraying said vehicle. But they do have an actual burgundy-colored Model T that leads all the parades before the football game. It smells like exhaust. Pretty sure it doesn't meet current emission standards. As my dad would say, "Mox nix."

Anyway, this is a great day to be talking about Havertown/Haverford, or in this case, for me to be talking and you to be hanging on my every word. You see, tomorrow is Haverford Township Day (huzzah!), which consists of a smallish parade which includes the high school marching band and most likely other participants, as well. I'm only 100 percent sure about the marching band, because we have to get KFP to the line-up spot in time to march tomorrow morning.

The festivities after the parade include craft and vendor booths; performances by such performers as the Beatles tribute band Newspaper Taxis (lest you think we're not obsessed enough about cars here); and apparently stilt walkers, jugglers, magicians and "Rock n Roll racing," whatever that is.

Despite living in Havertown since KFP was in first grade, we've only been to Haverford Township Day once, and it was raining, so we most likely didn't get the full experience. I do remember a very enthusiastic high school student at the HHS Robotics Club table, spinning tales of coding for our scientific-minded boy when he was just an elementary school kiddo. He's expressed his interest in joining the Robotics Club, now that he's old enough. His first meeting will be next week. Maybe in a future year, he'll help staff their table at Haverford Township Day.

For people outside of the Philadelphia area, I typically just tell them I live in "the Philadelphia suburbs," like nearly everyone else who lives in one of the surrounding counties. Around here, the Philadelphia area is known as the "Five Counties," which includes Philadelphia County (natch), as well as Bucks County to the Northeast, Montgomery County to the Northwest, Chester County to the far West, and Delaware County (a.k.a. Delco, where we live) to the immediate West of Philadelphia.

Before we moved to Havertown, we lived in Upper Darby, in a neighborhood known as Stonehurst, which literally looks like someone tried to max out their Monopoly space by jamming as many rowhouses as possible onto it. I used to tell people, for perspective, that there was Stonehurst, then the Fernwood Cemetery, and then West Philadelphia, which is absolutely true but more of a walk than you'd think.

Having grown up in a literal village in rural Central Pennsylvania, along the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, I was a little overwhelmed at first by suburban Philly. As someone who was used to actual SPACE between municipalities, I found it a bit disconcerting to drive from one town into the next and only know it by spotting a street sign.

I mean, in my first apartment, you could see the Philadelphia skyline from the street that ran by my house. Which seemed awfully close, until I got used to it.

High school classmates still register surprise when they learn where I've moved. Me, the girl who sported a perpetual tan from riding everywhere on my bicycle past cow pastures and cornfields, now living in Main Line Philadelphia. And honestly, there was a time when I would have been equally surprised.

Really, I never would have come here except that some of my dearest college buddies -- compatriots from the Penn State Monty Python Society -- came from Delco and moved back here after graduation. Thanks to them, I also met my husband, and the rest just seems like fate.

So, here's the part where I get deep and tell you what it all means. Because if I don't, it's just a lot of palaver, right?

Here's the secret: this suburban community, this goulash of people from a hundred different ethnicities, languages, backgrounds and religions, they're just as real as any small town. I mean, they may not be "Gilmore Girls" or "Northern Exposure," but they're genuine. Caring. Welcoming.

And I'm running out of time to tell you how readily we fit in here: how the moms at the elementary school befriended me, even though we were "outsiders," and how my son found his tight group of geeky, like-minded buddies that we parents of the Five Dudes agree are essentially one kid, split into five different bodies.

I'm not going to have time to tell you how my neighbors look out for us: bring in our packages and knock on our door to tell us when the back parking lot is flooding from an overflowing creek. How even the woman whose car I dented in the parking lot smiles cheerfully at me whenever she sees me.

No place is perfect, mind you. I get aggravated when I'm trying to nap and kids are playing excitedly outside. I sometimes wish I could put on an invisibility cloak and slip unseen into my apartment, when my introverted nature takes hold and I want to be unobserved.

But as random as it might seem that I ended up here, I truly feel like I belong. Far from being a bunch of nonsense, I believe that matters.

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