(no subject)

Quite the day already. had a hard time waking up this morning. . . every few minutes, something would happen to disturb my sleep, an alarm, a phone, the mirror would quiver, Uni (the stuffed winged unicorn I had custom made for hubby) tilted her head at one point, and if I wasn't half asleep, I would've said she winked. What's that phrase that Stephen King uses in the Dark Tower books for when things GO. . he doesn't say wonky, what does he call it, ripply? no . . .but things GO, during the . . TODASH! . .things go todash, and then they go all .. . something, well. . one out of two words ain't bad. Well things kinda felt like that, kinda went todash with the chimes and the buzzers splitting the back of my brain, and everthing seeming shmeery and strange, like a bad drug trip (ow how would I know, I never touched one before, 'cept that perscription codine), but then I'd go back to sleep.

So I'm finally awake now, and half scared to go out my door. I won't even open the blinds, expecting to see something bizaare. the strange little changes inside the apartment are enough to make me wonder if I've slipped over a dimension or two. . . . little things, like all the scents of my lotion are different, my old bottle of rose is now lilac, the creme brule I was sure I had, is now cinammon icing, even the new bodywash we'd just gotten, black raspberry vanilla, I remember it so well, but the new bottle doesn't say that at all, it says sweet clover and honey. . . this is not a fun thing for someone with a swiss cheese memory. Is it todash, or did I just have another mini breakdown for whatever reason, and now my memory is completely fried? I'm scared to look outside my windows. Is my car still there? will it be blue now? or white? will the cute little sticker that says "WARNING: protected by unicorn" now say something like protected by griffon? or dragon? if it's there at all.

and things keep LOOKING at me. You know, you see them just barely move out of the corner of your eye, but then when you look, they're stone still (which, considering 4 are MADE of stone is completely accurate). . . the little red dragon is right under my computer screen, so he can't get away with much, but the family of unicorns to my right, I could swear their heads keep turning towards me, I probably wouldn't see, but the light through the closed blinds slants just right to catch their horns when they move and cause a flash.

Well, todash or no todash, rabbit hole or worm hole, I have a class at 1pm, so I guess I can't hide in here forever. I'll speak more on this if and when I get back later.

(no subject)

So the afternoon creeps on. The weather outside it crazy; but it's been that way all season, so I've no way to tell if that's to do with the earlier events or not. My car was there, sticker in place, and the proper color, good thing too, since it was too cold to walk. . . and was I thankful for the faculty sign hanging off my rear-view mirror that allows me to park closer, even if I still have to walk a little ways. the radio was playing odd songs. please someone tell me that Cake really did do a cover of I Will Survive and I just somehow managed to never hear it before today. . . between that and william shatner song-speaking . . . that was enough to twitch me. Everything else seemed in order, my tree is still fenced in behind tall green fences, and the building beside it still under construction. I did stop for a moment and notice a squirrel. . . it's long been stated that the campus squirrels are crazy, rumors about the science department. . . completely unfounded supposedly. . and I always figured it was stupid city folk who didn't know that squirrels are just naturally zaney creatures. . . until I saw one today. . . it walked. . .literally. . . walked. . . no hopping or skittering or squirrely movements, just walked, and winked, and I ran into my building.

another small note, when I reached into my coat for my glvoes, they were purple. now I own purple gloves, have for years, but they've been in the box, never had a chance to wear them, but there they were, so I wore my purple gloves with my red fox jacket and my ruby slippers. technicolor indeed.

things went as they should, with the occasional ponderance over little things. . like why did those men seem to be spreading fake pinestraw for mulch? fake pinestraw? I grew up behind a pine forest and pine straw certainly isn't that color red when it's dried and it's never curly! and of course, there were no pine trees around to look and figure it out. . . little things like stopping to practice the piano and noticing that one octave was out of tune, that someone had written in russian on the blackboard, and the piano was a blasius not a baldwin. . . little things. . . so I went home.

even now, resigned that I will not be going out the rest of the day, and somewhere between fearful and wishful that I had Father Callahan's ability to see non-men (would the servents of the crimson king be out today!) . . even now I'm slightly disturbed to see that the walls of the apt. that had been such a standard antique white are now baby blue. If I were a more social creature, I fear I'd realize much more askew than just the colorscheme here.

(no subject)

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.