a small history.

Today, my grandmother was in the living room sorting through hundreds of old pictures out of a box from the attic. The pictures were from me and my sibling’s childhoods, all the way back to my Mom’s childhood. I went to work, and when I came home all of the photos were sorted out, I guess, to wherever she wanted them to be. One thing was left out, on the coffee table, a yellowing piece of wide ruled notebook paper with pretty legible elementary school level handwriting on it. I figured it was on of my many rip-off stories from middle school, so I read through it:

“The Snow Queen (Story)
The Snow Queen is the queen of snow. She makes snow come down, stop, and stop. The snow queen is not a person she’s a big cloud. Her home is every where. She was the prettiest cloud in the world. She was a very big cloud. To every other cloud she was the beautifulest cloud for a queen. Snow Queen had one boy friend it was a rain cloud. His name was Rain King. They fell in love with each other and finly got merried. And Snow Queen had two baby clouds a boy and girl. There names were Twinkle (girl) Shower (boy).When Twinkle and Shower grew up they became very famous like there mother and father. Twinkle made evry summer day very beautiful. And Shower all ways gave spring showers. Snow Queen made winter ground sparkle all covered with her white coat of snow. Rain King made all farmers happy because wher Rain King rained he helped there crops grow. They made a lovely family. One day Snow Queen was snowing and she ran out of snow. And a few days later Snow Queen had pasted away.

The End
By Sandy Hicks”


These things seem to creep up on you, don’t they?
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the new face of zero and one

I woke up this morning with a heartache.

No, I'm not talking about heartburn. I'd like to think I'm experienced enough with that, after my years of late night beer and wine drinking, Pokey sticks and Pad Thai. That fiery morning retribution has a very specific timbre. This is not heartburn. It's a heartache.

I went about the day, doing what I always do. It was a Sunday, so I did some cleaning and dishes, then sat down and did some work on arrangements I have backlogged. I wrote a few emails and went grocery shopping. It was raining. I listened to jazz.

But what IS that nagging? That...throbbing? I can feel it in that nether-region in my middle, that place that only reports sensation to my brain when it's filled with longing or hurt. If I wasn't itching to finish reading this novel and sit down to watch a movie with Gabrielle, I'd spend some time to consider a name for that place that nags me so regularly...what can I call it?

Unbeknownst to me, the Furies have apparently been pursuing me too.

Maybe it's you? Maybe it's sympathetic vibrations. It's possible that I'm hurting for you. Maybe it's my mother. Maybe it's Snorty (oh hello...I didn't see you there). Maybe it's the rain?

It's probably the rain. Wait, it's ice now. My front lawn is white.

Yeah, it's probably the ice.
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