Seen at Fresh Pond earlier:
Now that I'm getting back into posting things more regularly to my blog (what with this whole "daily write" effort), I'm feeling less enamored of the more "canned" or "ready-made" feeling that the design of my Vox blog gives me, and more aligned with, and loyal to, my TypePad blog... which I've had since TyepPad was still in Beta, back in 2003. My Vox community has become pretty stagnant too, with very few people in my neighborhood posting with any regularity, and so it makes participating in that community less compelling and important.
I know, this is exactly the opposite of the sentiment I posted back in January. But, since then, I've become less into the integration aspects, and more into the separation of my blog as something unto itself, just for writing, and the occasional photo snapped with my phone and posted on-the-go. And so, regaining the control over all the content and design that TypePad affords, as well as all the nifty for-pay features related to traffic/stats, comment management, and other stuff... floats my boat right now.
So, long story short: If you like reading my stuff, and you want to keep doing it, I'd recommend you bookmark jess.typepad.com or its feed, because that's where I plan to spend most of my blogging time in coming days.
]]>He sat in pine bark mulch, with his back against a stiff shrub of some kind, outside of what looked like a generic office building. Having been outside for a few days now, he realized that shrubs have a little give to them, and aren't so soul-suckingly cold as brick walls. Mulch gave off a pleasant organic smell, covering up his own odor, and that of the piss and garbage that seemed to pervade every inch of downtown.
He shifted around in the worn-out corduroy sport coat, with suede elbow patches, and tried in vain to get a little warmth out of it. He pulled the sleeves down just a tiny bit further over his bony wrists, and recrossed his arms tightly over his knees.
Every exhalation created a little fog of steamy breath in the chill night air. He was so cold, he couldn't imagine it getting much worse, and wondered if people who froze to death really knew that it was happening to them, or whether, like he, they just felt so cold that it was painful, and almost unimaginable, and then... eventually... they didn't feel anything at all anymore. It wasn't like him to cry, but if ever he were going to, this was pretty much the point at which it'd happen. Was he cold enough to cry tears of ice? He drifted off into a dream, imagining snowflakes falling lightly from his eyelashes, as time slowed, and the world faded to black.
]]>She wakes me up when she climbs out of bed, and after she's rounded the corner for the bathroom, I quietly crawl into the warm spot that she left. I doze, and listen to the sounds of her routine: the toilet flushing, the toothbrush whirring, the tap running, the shower water falling on tiles, the vent fan spinning... which always develops a loud rattle after being on for five minutes.
That rattle is what clues me into the fact that she's almost ready, and impatient as I can be, I get up, shake off the last of my night's sleep, and head for the bathroom too. I usually wait for her right on the threshold, blocking the way out of the bathroom, in the space between the doorway and her dressing area. Sometimes, when I really want the day to get going, I peek into the shower to see if she's actually still in there... disbelieving of how long she can take.
Sulkily, I stare off into the hallway while she towels off, combs her hair, puts in her contacts, and otherwise finishes up in the bathroom. Every now and then, I go so far as to let out a bit of a whiney moan, just because I know it annoys her, and want her to know how incredibly bored I am with the waiting, waiting, waiting to get the day started. These protests are always met with the same reaction: "Oh, hush." She's so dismissive of my needs sometimes.
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The paint swatch was so brightly yellow, he was certain it could burn its way through his closed eyelids while he slept, potentially causing permanent retinal damage over time. Beige of some variety would be nice, or maybe a calming pale grey. This canary color was the stuff of nightmares. It blared at him, as if a driver out on the street below were leaning on his car's horn.
Of course, she loved it. "It's exactly what I want," was her happy declaration, clearly already feeling attached to her decision, and considering the matter completely within her domain, and so settled. He stared at the off-kilter square patch of sunny punishment on his wall, and debated his reaction to the question he knew was poised on her lips: "What do you think?"
She didn't really want to know what he thought. She was just perfectly polite, and felt that it was necessary to make a show of including him, and a demonstration of valuing his opinion. The expectation was that he would cave to her whims, at least in the realm of interior decorating, and frankly, he was exasperated by this particular cliché. He'd already assented, without so much as one word of doubt or complaint, to the floral bedding, the pastel bath towels, and the chipper little "Home Sweet Home" sampler hanging on the wall in their foyer. He was reaching his breaking point... almost ready to suggest, not without a generous helping of sarcasm, that they paint the bedroom black, including the windowpanes.
]]>Seen at Fresh Pond earlier: