Tuesdays...

...one year later, it's still a Tuesday.

Will you celebrate with me, this year of weekly reminders that we exist, that we are human beings, that I am what I think and think therefore I continue to write on and on and on until the wind has blown a pinhole straight through the mountain? Only a year, my pet, and yet things change with the speed of sand slipping past you on the highway, each grain a moment that could have been.

I have found myself wondering lately, where exactly have I sought this importance, this certain je ne sais quoi that makes up the miracle that is Tuesday? Why is it that I decided that Tuesday would be my day of writing nonsense? I've mentioned before that it's not my birth day (that would be, if you have somehow forgotten, Thursday, in the hour of the tiger in the year of the sheep) and it's not a day that I've ever ascribed importance to before, so...why?

Perhaps it is the sound of the word. Say it with me--"Toooozzzdaaaayyyy" or "Two-s-dei" or "Toosdae" or any of countless other ways to write it, to feel it, to come to your own conclusions.

I'm to the s's, now, in my moods. What do you think I will do when I reach the end of the alphabet? Shall I turn around and start pacing backward? Shall I consider this experiment finished and leave off entirely? Start anew using a complex mathematical or (far more likely) alphabetical equation to decide my order?

I have not decided, but since I have the last several letters yet to work through, I'm not really thinking about it yet.

There is sticky-sour redness on my fingers and the taste of magic in my mouth. If I were to count my months in the underworld in the traditional manner, I'd be a true inhabitant before my sentence was finished.

I will finish my maggot-pudding and go to sleep. Dream of frog eggs and syrupy sweet adder tongues. We'll continue this discussion in the morning.

For her ties are not to you or to me, they are to herself.

Oh, now you've gone and done it. You've ruined all my fun. I'm going to rush off and pout now, and you won't know why, you won't know what you did that made me want to shove you into a corner and kick you while you were down. If you think I'm going to tell you, you're seven times as foolish as I thought you were. Don't be an idiot anymore and stop whining. No-one really cares.

She heard the words echoing from a distance away, no matter that Tavy was standing right in front of her, hands grimly plastered to her hips in the shade of her youngest cousin, Laura, scowling when she hadn't gotten her way. There was pain somewhere hidden behind the words, some pale shadow of true anger that masked itself under the braids of petty viciousness, but for Teresa, there was no difference.

There was never any difference.

Mmmm...if I keep this up, it will, I promise you, turn into a faint and weeping witchy-wonder of a silly fantasy story. That would make me laugh, but ultimately achieve nothing, so I will stop.

Wings, all I can hear are----

musing-

she has a silent answer
to his unspoken riddle
the one he hides beneath
a dusty feather pillow

the words she speaks
nothing more than leaves
spinning in a dry breeze
hoping to fly out and up, up--

his empty nervousness appeals
with all the strength he hopes
will allow him to touch her
here, there, gently, roughly,

the surface is warm, he thinks
but the inside so cold it burns
(she remembers those words from
dappled celluloid memories)

his answer shocks her
into speaking once
with all the heart she can muster:
I am no angel, but a girl, a girl, a girl