Fantasy and science fiction stories, pop essays, bad poetry… Yup, that’s me.
Miss Lavinia Parrish was a young woman when she chose to apprentice herself to Mr Harid de Borba, a coffinmaker of great skill but odd repute. Though the two were acquainted prior to her request, Miss Parrish had not laid bare her heart to her new master, nor had she otherwise explained her particular reasons for undertaking a trade.
It took four of them to drive the rig, plus Bobo to steer.
Petey handled the clutch, Lulu was on brakes and gas, Jojo took care of shifting gears, and Alice ran relief for the other three and mostly told them what to do. Bobo steered, of course, since he had enough upper-body strength to turn the wheel, and with the booster seat could see over the dash. He was a chimp, but the rest of the crew tried not to hold it against him.
When I was twelve, my hada madrina came to visit. My fairy godmother hadn’t come to see us since my baptism, so I didn’t even know her except from the stories, like the one about cousin Tomasita and the goat who could play fútbol.
It’s Yom Kippur, and I’m fasting, and I’m in a fair amount of unrelated physical pain at the moment (my back is acting up something fierce and my head is beginning to pound).
I spent $200 on soap.
Wait, let me explain.
I committed purchase of art yesterday.
I will often buy small pieces, prints, or original drawings if they’re not too expensive, or small objets d’art that just feel good in my hand or will look pleasing to me on a bookshelf. I love wearable art, although I usually buy that as gifts (since I no longer wear earrings or much jewelry).
I’ve often looked at paintings on large canvases and thought, “oh, that would be nice…” and just sighed and walked away.
Yesterday, I didn’t walk away.
My America is a thousand peoples, a myriad tongues, a full spectrum of colors.
My America is corn, and apples baked in pies, the injera I had with lentils last week, and the sushi I eat on my birthdays, ice cream, arroz con leche, and pizza both Chicago and New York, hot samosas, and pot roast, candied yams, and fried tofu with bok choy.
First, because the stories we choose to tell do have moral implications given that they’re being told in a social context. This I simply accept as part of our social species wiring, personally. It just seems an obvious point to me, as consequential as gravity from mass. What we say, whether it’s fiction or not, affects others.
It’s not her fault, at all, but this morning I’m blaming Vienna Teng.
I listened to “Stray Italian Greyhound” off her new album, Inland Territory, on loop all the way to work today. I also belted it out right along with her, complete with dramatic interpretation.
Honestly, people. It has taken all of my considerable will power not to haul off and beat you when you say such inappropriate things–and often, at the most ridiculous times.