A few things from this week:
First, nothing makes me happier than putting on a dress, adding a touch more mascara than usual and dashing out the door in high heels on the way to an evening out. I enjoyed myself on Friday AND Saturday nights this week. Double bonus and big smiles all around.
Now on to more serious issues. I watched this movie and it's brilliant. "My Name is Khan" says what I've wanted to say but I don't have the experience or the words. It talks about acceptance and patience. It talks about fear and the true meaning of family. I highly recommend it.
Houston, TX early voting starts TOMORROW! Voting Information
I won't tell you who to vote for (exactly), but I'm voting for Bill White for Governor and also Sheri Cothrun for Judge Family Court Seat #246. I'm voting YES on Prop #1 because I'm sick and tired of my car falling into potholes large enough to swallow...my car!
Johnnie Tuitel was told by U.S. Airways that he was "too disabled to fly alone". He was on his way to give a talk on Self Advocacy. I have a feeling we haven't heard the last of this man. I hope not.
Have you seen the latest issue of W Magazine? It's the Art Issue and it's a stunner. Oh yeah, Kim Kardashian is in it painted silver and nude. Right, she's naked. She's silver. The rest of the magazine is fantastic. And Kim Kardashian is naked and silver.
Finally, I'm saving the biggest news for last (if you leave a silver reality star off the list). Reuters reports that a Florida company has developed red celery. Apparently it tastes exactly like the pale green stuff. This tells me I still won't eat it. There you go.
Have a good week. Hope you get to put on a dress, or extra mascara, or whatever makes you happiest.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Reminiscence
Reminiscence moved over the night,
wound around the room,
and touched us on our shoulders.
She patted us on our backs and kissed our cheeks.
She stopped to listen like the friend
she would have been if we’d met back then.
She sat on the same curbs with us as we waited
for the Ice Cream Man.
She watched the trains move down the tracks
leaving our pennies
flattened with the pressure of their heat,
and us, wishing for exhilaration
but flattened by the pressure of our guilt.
Reminiscence parked her bike in the rack at the library
and moved between your table and mine.
She walked through the stacks and
whispered the names of authors in our ears.
She sat on the banks of a river that was
strong enough to wash away city blocks and
watched it flow by, spring after spring.
As strong as that river was it was
never able to wash away all of the
Imagined Sins Of A Teenager.
She watched our mothers cry over us.
She watched us cry over our mothers.
Reminiscence induced bursts of laughter and sighs.
She set fireflies of memory across the room.
They darted past us, near us, almost in our grasp.
They landed in front of us casting sweet illumination on the past.
She was also content to let our conversations move forward.
She didn't keep us lingering with her for long.
She knew that forward is what makes her existence
Reality.
As she sat quietly and listened to
Today.
She knew that one day this will be
Back Then.
She kissed us on our cheeks, and sat back.
She watched.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved October 16, 2010
wound around the room,
and touched us on our shoulders.
She patted us on our backs and kissed our cheeks.
She stopped to listen like the friend
she would have been if we’d met back then.
She sat on the same curbs with us as we waited
for the Ice Cream Man.
She watched the trains move down the tracks
leaving our pennies
flattened with the pressure of their heat,
and us, wishing for exhilaration
but flattened by the pressure of our guilt.
Reminiscence parked her bike in the rack at the library
and moved between your table and mine.
She walked through the stacks and
whispered the names of authors in our ears.
She sat on the banks of a river that was
strong enough to wash away city blocks and
watched it flow by, spring after spring.
As strong as that river was it was
never able to wash away all of the
Imagined Sins Of A Teenager.
She watched our mothers cry over us.
She watched us cry over our mothers.
Reminiscence induced bursts of laughter and sighs.
She set fireflies of memory across the room.
They darted past us, near us, almost in our grasp.
They landed in front of us casting sweet illumination on the past.
She was also content to let our conversations move forward.
She didn't keep us lingering with her for long.
She knew that forward is what makes her existence
Reality.
As she sat quietly and listened to
Today.
She knew that one day this will be
Back Then.
She kissed us on our cheeks, and sat back.
She watched.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved October 16, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
At the Center of the Storm-Self Medi(ca)(ta)tion
I've weathered worse.
The opposite of pure light isn't total darkness. It's the twilight that lingers for weeks when the candles have burned below their wicks and wax has spilled onto the tables and no one cares if the newspapers are piled on the porch.
I've walked among the dead and among those who beg to die and my heart holds the scars of both yet it still stirs at the memories of their living.
Mantra.
The tap, tap of the keyboard can start a rhythm that makes me forget - at least for a while - that I need to pull air in, feed my brain, and let the stale air out. It keeps me from getting stuck at some point, guppy breathing and dumbstruck by the outlandish folly of throwing down the gauntlet with myself - yet again.
The thought of howling out of the depths of another self-imposed cyclone is daunting.
tap. tap. tap.
Center of the storm.
Salvation. One key at a time.
©Michelle Scofield, October 9, 2010 All Rights Reserved
The opposite of pure light isn't total darkness. It's the twilight that lingers for weeks when the candles have burned below their wicks and wax has spilled onto the tables and no one cares if the newspapers are piled on the porch.
I've walked among the dead and among those who beg to die and my heart holds the scars of both yet it still stirs at the memories of their living.
Mantra.
The tap, tap of the keyboard can start a rhythm that makes me forget - at least for a while - that I need to pull air in, feed my brain, and let the stale air out. It keeps me from getting stuck at some point, guppy breathing and dumbstruck by the outlandish folly of throwing down the gauntlet with myself - yet again.
The thought of howling out of the depths of another self-imposed cyclone is daunting.
tap. tap. tap.
Center of the storm.
Salvation. One key at a time.
©Michelle Scofield, October 9, 2010 All Rights Reserved
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