Nancy's Musings

The well-fed gentleman walked stiffly, his stick held under his left arm, his left hand resting on the worn, brass head. His blue-velvet coat was the only color among the somber shadows that clasped the All-Alone's even now in the late morning. He flinched under their oppressive leanings, and walked the more briskly until he arrived at a doorway near a cross-alley. He rapped once solidly with his cane-head and glanced over one shoulder. Only the rats glanced back. He was let indoors by a slouching young man who immediately slunk off to complete some other chore and left the gentleman standing in the crowded room. Most of the furniture hadn't been made up from the night's repose. He deduced awkwardly that at least three children slept in this windowless space, and had for some time, by the smell. He tugged out a handkerchief and held it delicately over his peppery moustache. The woman's dresses made nary a sound as she rounded the corner and called his name brightly. He ...

Jennifer says my blog is just me. On one hand, I'm delighted I've found a voice. On the other hand, it appears my voice drones on in monotone. Well la-di-da. I like black and white movies, black and white photographs, and black and white keyboards (join me in a loud and off-key rendition of "Ebony and Ivory," just for the sake of comradeship). I must admit, I prefer my books colorful. They sit there, giggling at me, all these colorful books. One voices a husky innuendo and another makes a rude gesture, and I wonder again that they sprang into being with children in mind. One must discipline ones literature. One must establish schedules and procedures or they piddle on your laptop.

I follow the personal blog of someone I may never have met. He recently posted a list of his favorite break-up songs, and I went digging for some of mine. I began listening to them, but the sentiments are so distant from me now. I have not felt that burning anger that is the flip-side of romance for such a long time that I had to blow the dust off my emotions to read the labels. The last two times I have broken off a relationship with a man my feelings were cold and controlled. I felt no urge for violence, I simply no longer wished to associate with them, and so I cut them out of my relationship diet. It worked well the first time because he was too poor to own a computer (and the relationship was largely head-games anyway). I just deleted his number from my phone. This latest ablution, though, has been a bit more troublesome. He still occasional sends an e-mail inquiry. I don't think I ever told him why I no longer wanted to be his friend. I don't think I will. I'm not ang...

The smooth texture and cool feeling of an avocado, salted, dissolving on the tongue contributes to a very simple, particular kind of culinary joy. There are no complicated preparations, no multiple-step marinations or precisely measured spices, but the natural flavor refreshes and comforts. The flavor, enhanced by salt, is only half of the beauty of a top-of-the-fridge-ripened avocado. The texture comprises the supreme perfection of an avocado. It should be dark, ripened until the meat can be scooped with a teaspoon into my salivating mouth where it promptly fills my palette with that one perfectly blended avacadoness. To the avacado-like pleasures of earth-life I add the clear sound of a bell, the flash of lightening or a falling star, the smell of pine-sol, and the wiggly-comfort of satin undershorts.

I remember that Winter when everything was dark, and the lights in the darkness were tainted. Inside, the warm glow of our kitchen lamp belied the shadowed snow. I pulled the tinfoil off the great picture-window above the spiral staircase and let the morning sunlight in, but nights, oh nights. I filled the window with delicate rose-patterned showflakes cut from tissue paper. We hung lights and sprayed snow. Deep into the evenings, lonely and helpless I began a 2000-piece puzzle of a famous painting, but there too I could only see darkness. The table was a glinting onyx color, and the puzzle pieces hid their gold paintbrush strokes under blacks and browns. The sky and the forest. I worked night after night. I asked for help, but that winter they were pairing off. Gina and her boy cuddled in the love-sac and distracted for a moment, I came to converse. New Years Eve, and they were headed to a party around the corner. They spoke flippantly of the future and I mentioned that I can read pal...

Last night while I was trying to fall asleep to the booms and voices in the next room I jumped into the middle of a story I imagine in my head. She keeps house for four men in a house built on the side of a ravine, and when the winds blow through she becomes frightened. She curled up in a pile of blankets surrounded by her brothers and fell asleep. I didn't. I started counting down from one hundred, and became distracted by the memories the numbers brought back, so I attempted something even more challenging. I started calculating the Fibonacci sequence. I'm not sure they were correct - I don't remember things well unless I've seen them written down, and all I could do was trace the figures on the wall with my finger. Anyway, a recent television show I was watching implied that one of the numbers was in the 900's, but my numbers jumped into the 1000's. At that point I started over again, and then fell asleep somewhere around 55.

I find, frustratingly, that my black blog with its resemblance to nighttime lends itself quite a bit more easily to free thought, although it was originally intended only for academic links, and clues and tidbits to my research. In a conversation with an artist I once learned a word for creating with colors on top of darkness, which I had described when I was talking about my fascination with stage lighting. I have since forgotten it. Darkness holds so much more possibility than light. If you close your eyes in the darkness it is easier to imagine what might be behind them than if you see something and struggle to deny your senses. This blog is green. Maybe it'll make my blogging a darn-sight more cheerful.