You Can't Take the Sky From Me

MASS: and Merry Christmas to everyone!

MASS: Happy Thanksgiving to everyone where ever you are!

Front row. Center. Neil Gaiman! Say "hi Neil!"

As it's now been, god, 2 years, since I shut this little puppy down and put up the "no more new friends" addendum on my profile. I still have like 20 people lurking in the "friends of" area. I'm sure some are dead journals, abandoned but not deleted. And there's probably people who peek by for my extremely rare "for the public" posts.

So.

SPEAK! If you're out there, and NOT allowed inside. Let me know. One time offer, consider it a reverse birthday gift.

Tell me how you found me, why you added me - despite MANY reasons why you shouldn't have- and who you are.

opinions haven't been this low since President Rodham was found fisting kittens in Brooklyn.

Eddie Izzard. 5th row. Center. Ow yeah.

Just another public notice that I'm going hiatus while I'm on another trip.

Not leaving the country this time, but still not sure how much time I'm going to have on the internet, particularly past email.

Catch my plane to Seattle this afternoon.

See all you people in a month (except my net-pals in Seattle, which I'll see while I'm there).

turns out the last line is: "Dude, these hos been zombified"

Thank softpaw for the corn.

Hey, I like it :-)

Three notes walk into a Bar: a C, an E-flat, and a G. The bartender says he doesn't serve minors. So the E-flat leaves and the C and G have a Fifth between them

So it's night time, and as ever, I am emboldened by the dark. The oddness has continued, as the sun set the walls changed colors again, pewter grey now. . . . but the moon . . THE MOOON! (sings, We like the moooon, because it is cloooose tooo uuuss!!) how beautiful is the moon??
-my mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
INDEED!
old Gordo had it right about quoting Shakespeare being the answer to all the questions you'll ever be asked by wandering drunks at night.

But back to the night, and the moon. Ow it's the most wonderful colors. . . not quite the lunar rainbow of my icon, a shadow of a rainbow barely cast on the pale white surface as the barest glinting rain falls, no, that's another world. . a stronger todash would be needed to carry me that far. . . but still, the colors on the moon, dim, transparent. . . ghost colors. And I thought, ow this is a moon of a long distant memory, or a half-forgotten dream, like the chimes in the back of your head when stuffed animals turn their heads to look at you. Make a wish. why not?

well my wish didn't go quite as expected. But it was interesting none-the-less. I saw the light and it made a ladder from the moon, shining down to the old graveyard out across the three parking lots, one road and two grass breaks. . . so I grabbed my coat and my gloves (when did they turn green? am I still slipping? or is it sliding? or is it splurping?) and ran across to the old stone wall, but I had to stop before I got there. There's an outcropping of woods between the last two parking lots, it wraps around one end and encircles the old civil war gravesite. There were strange birds in the branches, of the same ghosty-glowing colors of the moon, grim and silent and intent in their watching. I tripped and fell in a ditch, distracted by the birds, wondering if leaving the apartment had been a good idea after all, but as I first said, night makes me brave. . . or wild. . . or careless. . . and when I pulled myself out of the cold mud, and looked up, I saw the vines from the trees around the lot moving, like slow snakes or extremely fast kudzu. I crossed the last parking lot and stayed at the edge, watching the vines and thinning trees at the top of the hill wriggle over the dead winter ground and cold stone walls. The ladder of light from the moon still shown in the center of the plot. . . no, it seemed at the center at first, but when I moved around, it was distinctly off to the left.

In time the vines settled, and I dared take a few steps forward, towards the light that even now was starting to quaver. I had to step carefully, because I noticed the vines were covered in thorns, large and sparse at the thick parts and covered with thin hair-like spines at the thins. . . and buds! and I thought about crape murdles and how you can make them bloom early if you squeeze them right, and curious to see what strange flowers were these, I reached down and squeezed from the base, ever so slightly, and not just the one, but all the buds gave way, as if a sudden floral explosion, now, I may've hoped upon hope that these would be blue roses, as I always dream, but they weren't. they were the pale glowing grey of the moon with just the slightest tinge of the ghost-colors that had reflected on it earlier. . in all the blooming thorns, one or two might have been a barely-blue, but it was hard to see, the woodland hill shimmering with opalescent roses all the way up and over the great stone walls. But the light had gone. Had I, by forcing the flowers, quickened the light of the ladder and made it vanish premature too? I tried to move through the vines, but it was slow going and laborious, careful to avoid the briers, and thankful my boots were rubber. I finally reached the grave yard, but the ladder was gone, the roses stopping just on the other side of the walls, the grass green and quiet. . .the moon above white and sane. But the flowers were pretty and the wind was oddly warm for I knew it was below 40' out (and in all rights, I shouldn't be out when it's so cold, coat or not) but it felt nice and the trees were whispering their own little tune, so I sat on the wall and sang with the trees and the flowers and the dead. I was loath to go, but the cold cannot be denied by one with my blood, and so inside I had to go, watching as the roses rapidly faded and fluttered away, vines snaking back into the trees as I hopped the ditches and crossed the barren blacktop.

There is quiet thunder now.