Traitorous wretch!!

Flowers. And in such shades that nature can only gawk. The self-assured patterns of fake blooms riddled with admiring insects reign consummately over this place of deep, rosy-colored carpet and Parisian floral scents. An antique chair, a delicately curving oak vanity, the tall queen bed whose mauve ruffles imitate precisely the shade of the walls which so lovingly encircle it all...this room sings her praise.

But the house chants for him, and among the other doors swinging mildly on worn hinges, the one to her bedroom seems very closed. Open space sprawls out from this casual rejection and fills itself to the brim in rebellion. The dark wood suddenly lining the walls is overrun to near extinction by a massive array of profoundly random images, in proudly mismatched frames. Hulking, mahogany furniture finds sanctuary in every corner, right up to the cabinets that surround the ancient stove, whose every dish smells slightly of hickory.

Stepping outside and into good intentions, the wheat grass is endless. It sways protectively from the red-paint walls of the house to a lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to reinvent the skyline. Only the smell of the trees, with their fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, could manage to break the constant impression of silence. At its birth, this house was the neighborhood.

Except, the neighborhood hasn't much resembled this hopeful expectation for years. It exists for the three shopping centers only a jog away in any direction, even as it still graces the base of the northern mountains. There are gated communities of identical houses, built to confuse any form of danger into befalling a neighbor instead. The masters of the town have seized the uselessly empty fields and fulfilled their true purpose as cleanly paved roads. The dirt path on the house's eastern boundaries is now a concrete wall, erected inches from the kitchen window. In its fervent consumption of excess space, this small town in disguise as a big city seems to think itself on the brink of fooling the world.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/3/07)

When first i saw her, i thought her sad.

I wish the length of the shadows were scented! The colors deny distinction; black on black on black on grey--like the soles of my socked-feet; like my favorite lack of color. Where's the sky when you need it, Love?! Where's the question exposed? [I wonder what the fuck I'm thinking about, let alone writing...but don't stop!]

I've been imagining up a version of a friend of mine lately. Really, ever since she last wrote me a letter about that stupid boy she loves. I've been thinking paranoid-ly about her, and in terms of my domestic violence advocacy training, in fact.

Now I'm almost definitely being a silly-girl myself in this respect cuz my friend is mostly fine (besides her dating a clueless, asshole-kid), but nonetheless I've maybe-sometimes got to look out for that girl.

So now I'm suddenly thinking about pretending things about yourself--something like a test of character for the people surrounding you, or even just visiting your life. It might be called 'self-deprecation', and much too unrealistic self-humbling, rendering yourself needlessly prostrate. Know you what I mean? Who among you will know, I wonder, to tell you to stand the fuck back up?

[A Power of Procrastination flyer that advertises an "upcoming group meeting" is hanging up in an office window. It's over four months old.]

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/23/07)