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Friday, April 30, 2010

Three things enchanted him:
white peacocks, evensong,
and faded maps of America.
He couldn’t stand bawling brats,
or raspberry jam with his tea,
or womanish hysteria.
. . . And he was tied to me.

- Anna Ahkmatova
Translation by Stanley Kunitz

Monday, April 26, 2010

food

Not even the proximity (20 hours) of my Astronomy final is compelling me to study. Instead, I am reading Julie Powell's Julia Child blog, and broiling slices of tomato on top of cheddar irish soda bread.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes

This is the first day of my life
Swear I was born right in the doorway
I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed
They were spreading blankets on the beach
Your's is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been
But I know where I want to go

And so I thought I'd let you know
If these things take forever, I especially am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home

Remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange, you said everything changed
You felt as if you'd just woke up

And you said, "This is the first day of my life.
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you.
But, now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy."

So if you wanna be with me
With these things there's no telling
We'll just have to wait and see
But I'd rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery

Besides, maybe this time it's different
I mean I really think you like me

Friday, April 23, 2010

tea toast to today


To rain storms. To 7 pounds lost while not starving myself. To a pair of shiny silver track pants settling low on my hips and cinching around my ankles. To a green geometrical cardigan. To a black and white skirt. To running in the park. To a successful interview at the chocolate shop. To moving Tim's books to our new pad. To ripping out weeds and dead stalks from the garden. To Emily's scarf, nearly finished. To an A in English. To original wedding vows.

The other day




I cut Tim's hair, and ate greek salad.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

23 - some anticipatory doggerel

The wedding party is only 23 days away, the official ceremony 22! How did this happen? We started off counting down from 170. There is a lot to do, now that uni is over -

A duvet cover to sew for our married bed,
epithalamions to write, to bust out of my head.

Ice cream to mix out of lemons and sugar,
bread to bake, to eat with the liquor.

Hair to trim and earrings to glue,
bookshelves to move, so our books will make do.

A house to clean from the door to the bathroom,
flowers to buy, to ward off the grey gloom

(in case the day is gusty and rainy -
but then again we'd resort to Seamus Heaney).

Vows to compose and an official to meet,
relatives to bring through the mazes of streets.

High heels for practice and blue shoes for whimsy,
and no one that night will look as sad as a pansy.




Monday, April 19, 2010

Etsy

A daft idea. Pygmalion Press, the Etsy shop I am planning to open this month, will offer a new and novel product to the world of internet shopping, in addition to the zines I originally planned for. 

I do believe there is a niche market in poetry commissions. I shall be the one to fill it. Do you suppose that fifteen dollars is reasonable?

Soap [a stream of consciousness]

I've been thinking about soap. About: how odd it is that we rub a slimy chunk over our wet hands before rinsing the slime off. About how normal it seems the more odd it seems. What could be more normal than trying to stay clean, and what could be more relevantly useful than soap?

But of course, soap is only normal because we have always known it. On distant planets, other intelligent creatures do all sorts of things we would never dream of. If you'd never used it or heard about it, would you dream of soap?

Perhaps not, but you might dream of cleanliness. Do soap-like substances appear all over the universe? Life has been discovered in the frozen oceans of Europa. Soap would dissolve there. What would life be like in a liquid atmosphere?

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Sicky Chicky

I am a sick woman. All day I have been snuffling like a mole and trumpeting like an elephant,



but Tim is calling me Molly because he says that with the humidifier blasting away beside the bed, I feel like a steamed mollusk. Oceans of tea and orange juice have flowed down my throat, along with a small sea of goop from my draining sinuses.


I've started to read Notes from Underground. I've informed two of my instructors that I'll need deferred final exams.


Friday, April 16, 2010

In


The managing editor for Other Voices emailed me today to say, "Elizabeth. I think you will fit into our
collectives nicely. Did you specify whether you would prefer reading with the either the poetry or the fiction collective?

The next step is to join us for our Annual General Meeting on Sunday April
25th at 2pm".

WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP!

On top of this, my tray of watermelon sprouts is beating Tim's by four sprouts.

[To be fair, I planted more seeds than he did.]

I am also getting married in exactly four weeks.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Love Song


He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

Ted Hughes

April 10

At nineteen, I am finally in love with the world.

I've been conditionally accepted to work on the editorial board of Other Voices, a lit journal based in Edmonton, which published my first published poem. Tomorrow I'll send them critiques of two sample submissions they asked me to review, and if they like what I write, I'm in. Editing work has been an ambition of mine since I was fourteen, and although this job isn't paid, it will look fantastic on my resume. There is another editing position, on the uni students' magazine, opening up this autumn, which I desperately want to score.

Today, I got to introduce Ted Hughes to my English class. On the bus home, an old woman noticed me reading a book of poetry, and asked if it was Shakespeare. It was Hughes, which I'd brought along to reference if I needed to, and I showed her the cover. She knew who he was. She said her mother had worked in the same Yorkshire town he had lived in. People from Liverpool, like her, thought Yorkshire people were tight-fisted. People from Liverpool were known for two things: their unconscious sharp wit, and their good humor. She wanted to know what I thought of Ted Hughes. Then, a few blocks from my stop, she told me about going into grammar, her favorite class, not knowing what grammar was, and how the teacher was terrifying. She got a 98 in grammar.

Classes are done for my first year of university. I have four exams, which will be finished next Tuesday, and the summer is mine to get married in, write, work, read, and garden. I sat with Tim for most of the evening, knitting Emily's scarf and talking. I had a bath, and war-painted my toenails. I ate vanilla yogurt with cocoa nibs. I made some notes for a poem.

I have always known that I wanted to be a writer, a literary lady. It seems the world has allowed me to begin a literary life, just when everything else is beginning as well. The man I will marry is a marvel. One of my tomato seeds has germinated.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Seamus Heaney

is one of the greatest, if not the greatest, poet alive. English class yesterday was pure pleasure, since we spent the whole hour discussing two of his poems. I talked too much.

Today, I can finally write a little. There will be a new zine.

Bog Queen
-Seamus Heaney

I lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and glass-toothed stone.

My body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn suns groped over my head
and cooled at my feet,

through my fabrics and skins
the seeps of winter
digested me,
the illiterate roots

pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
I lay waiting

on the gravel bottom,
my brain darkening,
a jar of spawn
fermenting underground

dreams of Baltic amber.
Bruised berries under my nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of the pelvis.

My diadem grew carious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.

My sash was a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and phoenician stitchwork
retted on my breasts'

soft moraines.
I knew winter cold
like the nuzzle of fjords
at my thighs -

the soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of hides.
My skull hibernated
in the wet nest of my hair.

Which they robbed.
I was barbered
and stripped
by a turfcutter's spade

who veiled me again
and packed coomb softly
between the stone jambs
at my head and my feet.

Till a peer's wife bribed him.
The plait of my hair,
a slimy birth-cord
of bog, had been cut

and I rose from the dark,
hacked bone, skull-ware,
frayed stitches, tufts,
small gleams on the bank.

Friday, April 9, 2010

The Emily

I invented a brand-new pattern. It's soft and subtle, wavy and bright. Like a sunny wind, like the lady herself. Happy marriage my friend!


Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Ocean - Margot and the Nuclear So and So's

Strung out, needle in arm
And the ocean is bleeding salt on your wounds
So I sat, as armies marched
But you found me awake but asleep on the porch

And don't you cry, my darling
Nashville is forgotten
And don't you cry, my darling
New York is the ocean

Brooklyn, quiet and cold
When the bars close
You're stuck counting cracks on the street

Then war breaks, and you're swinging the gun
But when the bomb drops
You're stuck counting cracks in your teeth

And don't you cry, my darling
Nashville is forgotten
And don't you cry, my darling
New York is the ocean

Strung out, needle in arm
And the ocean is bleeding salt on your wounds

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

And the winner is . . .

. . . rather, are: "Rosebush" by Glynis Cassley for best micro-story, and "ribbons" by Emily Burtt for best poem. Congratulations, and thanks to everyone who participated!

Sunday, April 4, 2010

These are the entries to the very first poetry contest hosted by Feed the Long Neck!

From Glynis Olivia:

Rosebush

By Glynis Cassley

When Adele phoned me, describing her now-ex-boyfriend in words they can’t use on daytime television, I asked her what she would do about it.

Bury him,” she replied.

I arrived at her house to find her shoving every bit of his paraphernalia she could find into an old shoebox. We buried it in the garden. After declaring that it “wasn’t nearly enough” she and I went to the greenhouse. We brought back a rosebush, and planted it above the shoebox and gave the cad over to “Mother %#$&@ Nature!”

The roses did extremely well, even if Adele did throw rocks at them on occasion. The ex-boyfriend moved out of town the next winter.

From Kayla Snow:

1000 Words
I know that you're hiding things,
Using gentle words to shelter me,
Your words were like a dream,
But dreams could never fool me,
Not that easily

I acted so different then,
Didn't say goodbye,
Before you left,
I was listening,
You'll fight your battles far from me,
Far too easily

Save your tears cause I'll come back,
I could hear that you whispered,
As you walked through that door,
But still I swore,
To hide the pain

As you turn back the pages
Shouting might've been the answer,
But if I cried my eyes out,
And begged you not to depart,
But now I'm not afraid to say,
What's in my heart

Cuase a thousand words,
Called out through the ages,
Will fly to you,
Just as though they were all,
Suspended on sliver wings,
They'll hold you forever


Frozen Hell

Sun illuminates the frosty meadow blinding me in spellbinding majesty
Snowflakes fall on my skin reflecting the paleness of the snow on the peck of the
mountains
The icy flowers bloom as their roots tangle and freeze anything they touch
Snow birds sing pleasant harmony softly, and it rings gently in my ears
Icicles like glass hang from trees, and sparkle to revel nothing
Your eyes see only but my shadow
I am a ghost among this place of frozen dreams, and silent tears

No wind blows in a grey sky, but air is cold as I freeze from the inside out
My skin starts to turn blue with frost bite painfully never thawing, never going numb
The icicles fall from the trees stabbing me, I bleed, but do not die even as the snow turns scarlet
I hear the screeching of owls hauntingly call over and over, I can't even hear my cries over them
This frozen landscape is frozen hell, where I'm left to my misery
Your eyes see only but my shadow
I am a ghost among this place of frozen dreams, and silent tears


Dance of the Butterfly
Flying in the warm sunshine
The wind and wings entwine in the dance
Colors of sultry red, flaming orange, neon yellow, emerald green
Mingled into the cosmic blue horizon
Softly the butterfly lands on the flowers
Until up like a kite it goes
When it will stop no one knows
The gently flutter of the wings reminds me….
Reminds me of the feeling of happiness found in our hearts
Butterflies are rebirth for I’ll be an angel with beautiful wings too
Flying high in the blue sky
The twinkling of the stars has begun
However the life of the butterfly is done
I’ll remember that butterfly till I’m gone
For I’ll dance with it
Under the yellow sun


Notre Dame

A body is sanctuary, a temple for the spirit as the bible tells
What lies beneath my eyes this night is bewitchment, enchanting spells
Withered in the winter, a garden becomes a path to the gates of hell
In Notre Dame, a cathedral holy, beautiful, but the demon within no could tell
I walk up it's stairs seeking reprieve and sanctuary from this cruel world
Pews empty, statues of holiness exulted, But something in the dark lingers here
Windows let light seep through, and yet from the mother of God's eyes fall an ancient tear
"I've waited for you for many years"
I hear a soft voice call and I almost turn and run ashamed
"I prayed for you, I begged for you, don't be afraid to look at me"
Looking up Mary cries, but her lips don’t move, what cruelty is this?
I feel death on the winds as they blow in through the doors

And before the alter
Lies a organ, and a unholy bride the stain glass widows color her pale skin
The sound makes me fearful, by the sheer powerful notes, and her fingers ooze
"Rightfully so you feel pain personified here,
"Without innocence the cross is but mere iron, without love a heart will rot, and decay,"
"Without sight eyes will turn to stone, without you I cannot exist with purpose, I’ll never be whole again."
Stunned shocked as flows to my feet, and I feel stunned.
"Who are you?"
"A soul lost at sea will be forgotten like the sea itself, there but not recognized...."
”No one would hear the last plea for love in the crashing waves, or the fading away to death...."
Her hair is limp black about her waist, with dead flowers about it, I notice as she lifts her veil
She removes her tattered gloves showing her bloodied hands
Rips a rosary of gold from her ghastly pale neck, parts of bone peek out
Standing, she turns around and I scream as black tears run down her face
Her eyes are gone, only sockets of blackened blood, and yet, I feel them chill me
" You dare to ask who am I? I'm the forgotten one, I'm Faith"


Mirrors
Glass shines brilliantly
It shows what people see
It shows who you are or could be
Does it show into your eyes or your soul?
My eyes are blue
Icy sheets of glass that look strong
Looking in the mirror... I know the image is all wrong
The ice is splintered, broken
I hope my secrets aren't shown
Plain for the mirror to revel
Yes, the mirror revels my flaws
That I'm human
Is that so wrong?
Perhaps the gentle heart in my body is gone
Perhaps my love in my heart is buried under stone
I may be broken and no one but God can fix me
I know I'm not alone
A mirror lies
A mirror shows pain
That’s why I hate mirrors

Beauty and Tragedy

He stands forever in her shadow and the guilt consumes him
Beauty was once stunning and perfect
Innocent and pure as freshly fallen snow
Reality shattered that image
Replaced it with a broken corpse, staring with lifeless eyes
The pain of the world bore into them

But he cherishes and clings to the memories they shared
Once he had it all, money, gardens, servants, surface things
No love did he know, unaware of life's unexpecting joys
Not that he cared, he had everything that a pitiful human would desire
Until Beauty came into Tragedy's life
The one person he couldn't force, get her with his money, or sheer force

It enraged him and he couldn't see what he had done wrong
Until he saw his own reflection in the mirror
He was not beautiful… he saw a beast with eyes filled with sin
When he looked at her she had none of those things
Though he came to feel love…it drove him mad, confusing him
No way to make it all stop, his world flipped in a single instant

By a girl, lowly, unimpressive girl who shocked the very ground he stood on
He screamed, and yowled begging for her to stop, but she didn't know what she had done
So, he did the only thing a selfish, wrathful being would know how to do
He destroyed her, broke her, stood over her and watched her die
But it didn't leave, the sorrow stayed, the guilt seeped in and the pain screamed in his veins
She could have saved him, she was meant to love him, but he was his own enemy
Thus ends the tale of Beauty and Tragedy

Baby Goth Girl

Raven lashes, eyeliner river down a porcelain face
Dear one, my love, who did you disgrace?
Ruby lips, wet like a rose refreshed in morning dew
Sitting in the graveyard, caged in... my mistress, how would I know that's you?
Sultry auburn, long caressing your exposed back
Little girl, covered in ravaged lace, turn around, show the world what you lack
Your torn dress shows glimpse of blue veins and thigh with the black garter
Sinful temptress, what have you come to bater?
Your soul?

Silver cross entwined in the thorns, in the dead of night sobbing for what you yearn
Funny here you lay atop my casket, beauty, can't you see your world burn?
Secretly you wish for heaven while in hell
My long lost angel forever is along time to fall
Think of me long enough to make a memory
Since your are the living and I am the dead... that's all I'll ever be
Gather up your courage, have hope in your heart
Leave me behind, I'll bless you, pray for a new start… not

Shining in the moonlight your final tears
You've sacrificed many things over the long unkind years
Now you make the ultimate sacrifice, let us live again in the land of the dead
End your life as a human being
That's it, raise the knife full of intention
Be the instrument for my resurrection
Love is my sweet redemption
If love is this white hot passion
I feel your body hit the hard stone
You'll bleed to death by the cross all alone
Goodbye my baby goth girl

From Tara Fisher:

The Foolishness of Wearing Wings
by Tara Fisher

They were both alike.
They both needed an escape
and in the middle of their flight
they saw the glory of the sun.

They moved toward it, instictively,
desperate to bathe in the gold.
Their wings caught alite --
they plummeted --

never to have their sun.

Now she understood Icaras:
how he lost thought,
heeded no warnings,
ignored the melting wax.

When greeted by the light
her flight was short, sweet --
she fell a burning mass,
scarred, misshapen.

Now she prepares to fly again --
she needs her sun.

From Emily Burtt:

"ribbons"
by Emily Burtt


Sometimes

I want to let my

hair go,

and run barefoot

through the streets.


Sometimes

I feel like bursting

with laughter

on an overcrowded

peak-hour train,

or gently weep

at the library

entrance.


There are days

when I twirl

my umbrella in my hands,

skip instead of walk,

smile when

everyone else is frowning.


There are moments

in time

when I will sing

at the top of my lungs -

the name of my lover,

and of ancient truths.


I will sail a paper boat

in the ocean,

I will kiss violets,

and let ribbons fly in the wind.


I hope

I will be remembered for my love.

or else for the ribbons.



From J. P. Nichols:


New Topic of Today, Yesterday, and Never

By Joel-Peter J.E.A. Nichols

Take a guess as you walk down to the rest of the world of wonderland with the happiness of the rest.
Insane trips of mesmerized hypnosis and painful regression all over the colored world.
Boredom makes sicken blood turn to black and firefights of your long lost cause.
Read between the lines of my immortal cry
Taking and giving nothing in return.
Back and forth the frost it truly burns.
Helpful transgressions you want to believe.
But nothing is what the illusion it may seem to be.
Ponderous decisions coming to you, darken the feelings of rhythm unbound.
Tossing and turning with no end in sight, making the day seem like the night.
Written on paper with pencil and pen, you have no grace even after death.
What is it that you take me for? A chum, a kid or a sold out whore.
Sanctified meaning of fucked up tomorrow, I don't know if life is fully worth knowing.
Blasphemy and curses are painful obsessions, but where do you go with no guide to bless them.
Is murder and killing worth the sacrifice of legend, how about pissing on government with high treason.
My sorrow of your yesterday's tomorrow is not worth seeing unless your blind.
The vision of today's caring progression is worth every cent.
Are you out there waiting to be known?


Jim Morrison


By Joel-Peter J.E.A. Nichols

Was Jim Morrison the one you wanted to believe in troubled times?
Is his soul dark and black from stupid self-pittied crimes?
Did you really know the man who was lost and sick with grief.
Did you fully understand the man you kneeled and worshiped at the feet.
Was he as great as you made him out to be.
Or was this man a troubled poet just like me.
Did he really want to die and break to the otherside.
Or was it all just a big great facade.
What was his true belief and cause?
Was it to tear down politcal walls or bask in his glorrified presence.
Was it clear to him that the world was dead and he was just a follower?
Or did he know his legacy would live on for the ages?
So what was Mr. Morrison's real purpose in life?
Was the end in reality his true and only friend?





HUMAN EXPLANATION


By Joel-Peter J.E.A. Nichols

Peer pressure making up crime.
Paying with your life with cold, hard, time.
Your soul is sold for that amazing fix.
But all you really want is to be loved.
Lunatics running around undiscovered in our screwed up society.
We feel nothing from the strong impact it causes to those close.
People stop and stare, but do nothing about it.
We are a sick species, with selfish tendencies.
Fatal words make up, half our vocabulary.
Painful, hateful, words with no ending.
Darkness surrounds our minds, warping our great thoughts.
Antisocial antics make us feel wanted.
Trends of society, consumes our budget.
Getting deeper in debt, but nothing gets better.
The rush throughout our bodies, makes things temporarily plausible.
We are only human, but not an animal.
Perfection is an illusion, full of sick, twisted, bittersweet misery.
Our sinful natured selves make us happy.
Energy is our gain, lust is our pain.
Making things alright for the better.
Feelings, emotions, scarring our skins.
Sadistic behavior for the young, senile for the old.
Pleasure filled rage engulfs us all.
Words of the many, fallen, and broken.
Lives pulled apart, from the conformity of multiple.
Declining down the steep hill of life.
Endless rides with incomplete satisfaction.
Curses of the damned, blessings of the saints.
Poetry in motion like a high speed train.
Uncontrollable by any aspect except your own.
Ultranationalist points of view, making one feel special.
Believing in whatever is real, shunning what doesn’t exist.
Complete control over words, slaughtering with cover ups.
Dramatic integrity, killing with empathy.
We are forsaken, unjustifiable for the masses.
Exploring our thoughts, exploiting your self.
Sociopathic trials, psychological evaluations.
Blood for blood, a dime for dime.
Getting your next hit on your self pitted victim.
Zero negotiation, impulses take absolute convulsions.
The hated, wicked, savior of today.
The anti-christ of tomorrow.
Possessive friends, true enemies.
Lost and ecstatic, no where to go.
Oxymoron’s for metaphors.
Nothing makes sense anymore.




Untitled Ballad


By Joel-Peter J.E.A. Nichols

Exemplifying the liquidated meadows.
Trickling in slow, constant motion towards the energy.
Tender, sweet kisses as you’re held in my arms.
Love isn’t the feeling since it’s much more then that.
I just wish I could find the right words.
Psychedelics are true passion as we just lay there together.
Tripping out on crazy emotions.
Thy is the fairest beauty out of all women.
Modern day English for the weak minded follows the phrase of I Love You.
If the world hath ended, then our last moments would be spent with you.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Today

I felt ugly. I did not feel like a brain full of poetry and legs that can run. There are still days when I want more than anything to stop eating.

Easter Saturday









- new earrings
- DSLR in the bathroom
- a handsome man
- watermelon and tomato seeds poked into flats
- hula hooping
- bottled beer
- Mozart's Requiem Mass

Tim reminded me to note that these pictures are flipped left-to-right. Though of course it doesn't count in the bathroom photos, I've discovered my face looks prettier, more recognizable, in mirror images - rather than ordinary photographs, which horrify me.

Friday, April 2, 2010

A Moving Day

of stairs and grime and carpets cleaned,
of watermelon seeds,
of cup cupboards and stacks of books,
of taco chips and sleaze.
And when the lamps are set up straight
and when the ground says please -
I'll run a tub and build a pub
under the green bean trees.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Crazy Fool's Day

Today has been a bit of a mess. I woke up too late for my early class, and therefore bicycled to work, where my employer first tried to under-pay me, and then unceremoniously changed my scheduling status to "casual". The end of the semester is only two weeks away, and I still don't have a summer job. I'm anxious about money. Even so, final papers would be all-consuming at the moment, but Tim and I are moving into our first apartment tomorrow morning. After I got home from work, I went to school for a poetry reading, but it turned out I had misread the posters, and it was finishing just as I arrived. Disappointed, I sat in the library and read Consciousness Explained for an hour and a half, until Tim's classes were over. Then we went grocery shopping. It wasn't until we got home that I realized that all I had eaten all day was a cup of instant vanilla pudding and that I was about to faint. But I didn't faint, I threw up, and Tim revived me with water when I came out of the bathroom. Snatching a package of dry egg noodles to eat in the car, we took off to return the car to Tim's parents. We ate and napped, and I feel revived.

Today's bright spots were my early morning ride, and the contest entries I found in my inbox this afternoon. Thanks to everyone who entered. All the submissions will be posted later this week, and the winner will be announced on Sunday.