Good to know

Been down and out these past weeks with pneumonia, Christmas, finals, work, a new kitten, and stress. That's all.

Your Tax dollars at Work!

I'm taking this moment of library time to wonder if the mirrors in public bathrooms are two-sided. And if they are, I wonder if someone is spying on me when I wash my hands. Because, sometimes, when I wash my hands in the bathroom, I sing. And if there are other people in the restroom with me, I mime singing, without making a sound. Does anyone really want to spy on that?

Some New Favorites

I Blame the Patriarchy by Twisty Faster is being added for sheer brilliant wit,

Shakespeare's Sister for the Maniac Cat One Act play,

and Dude! because Amrita is my friend, and nothing makes the time spent reshelving 15 carts of snotty picture books fly by like having someone to lament with.

Ode to the Back turned towards me in Sleep

I am cartographer to the map of his sleeping back.
Each landmark known, each signpost and rest stop detailed.
I become miner to those plains of flesh,
rake the ground as a master Zen gardener.
When he wakes, I dig into his back
as if it held my orgasm,
long red marks crosshatch the raised mound of spine.

His shoulders are broad lighthouses, beckoning wistfully
above the tattooed laughing face of comedy, the gaping mouth of tragedy.
The dark lines of tattoo, on closer inspection,
each dotted pore and circle of ink,
become every tear ever cried;
for a broken toy, an ex-girlfriend,
a hungry mother or aching solitude.

His breathing fights cravings for nicotine
as the half moon of his back rises, shifts.
The stale scent of cigarette smoke lingers,
mixing with the scent of carpentry glue,
a last whiff of deodorant applied hours ago,
a nighttime scent of garlic and butter pasta.

He is pierced and painted and scarred
to a nonchalant perfection
even my scratches do not taint.
In the half light his skin becomes smooth,
a magazine air-brushed reality,
I press the raised bump of freckle on his lower back
to find it is soft and yielding.

He glows yellow and peach,
His flesh is no longer flesh but a rainbow of light,
of Oxygen, of untouchable things that melt away
into the sounds of morning.
I find refuge in the curve of his spine
between tightened shoulder blades.
I carve myself into his skin, a nest for my own
breasts that fit squished against his rising consciousness.
I wander the frontier of his back with quiet fingers.

*Copyright Natalie J.H., 2005*

More Work Blogging

The noon-tide lunch hour, and I'm quite ready for a break. Maybe wander down North Tryon for a bit of Indian Cuisine at the only-for-lunch restaurant, or count my pennies for Starbucks. The strange holiday season has fallen, and the pressures of shopping and joy are upon us. I have no need to add any stress to my life, but for some reason I am compelled to rush to the mall and join the throng of cheery capitalists.

Or as the Communism Bunny says,
"Silly Capitalists, Trix are for Everyone!"

Work Day Blogging

In one fell swoop of my eager clacking keyboard fingers, I have joined the legion of bloggers who sneak in a post or two (or all) at work. Welcome, the opportunity of being caught, and the swift risk of being sacked. My work day blogging actually takes place at 6 in the evening, and ImaginOn is packed with the wiggle-bodies of small children waiting to have their photo-op with dear St. Nick. Which means, in short, not so many patrons wanting books. And with this in mind, I feel I can snoop around my blog and write.

It's been a long time coming, my blogging, since all the writing I have been doing is for Grad School. But, all of my work for Poetry Class has been completed and turned in, and 14 days until the full length play is due. I tried to write today during lunch break, and have been writing a little bit each day, so that I am not so horribly overwhelmed when I sit down to complete the final product. And then. . .I'm done. No more school for a bit. I can actually use my days off from work to have days off from working, period. And all the world rejoiced.

However, these short paragraphs do not excuse a month's absence from blogging. Please feel free to ridicule my lack of commun-it-mi-cations skills, and remind me of those heart-felt promises of daily blogging that I pledged to do throughout the summer months. With winter, promises freeze.