Meta-reposting with 100% more repostiness

This is the wordy waxing about which I spoke before. File this under: slice of life. Or the circular file. It’s cool. I won’t know. “And really,” the narrator gazed at the imaginary audience askance, “would it matter if I did?”

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Last I left off, I was screaming, wasn’t I? I’ll get back to the memoir-related stuff in due course. Then again, since this is about the present, maybe this is, too? What do I know? For now, I just felt really compelled to check in. With whom, I’m not sure. It just seems sporting if I’m going to neglect the blog for a while, as I do. Huh. Three months to the day since I posted that last one (before the last one, that is). Fancy that.

It was as fine a day of work as I could have hoped. Thank you for asking, dear. All the finer for letting out nearly an hour before the end of the day to get a wee jump start on what, for me, will be a relatively rare guilt-free and maybe even enjoyable three-day weekend, the first since the end of the year. There have been plenty of others, some mix of scattered guilt with acute and intermittent joylessness. If I didn’t know better, someone out there has a doll with my name on it and a collection of needles they’re dying to try out. I’ll venture this much…if you believe in poetic justice and what goes around, comes around, and you feel the need to vent, do NOT call anyone a boil on the ass of society. Just sayin. If there is someone with a heap of needles (a problem heap if ever there were one), I’m not giving ’em any more ideas of where they can stick ’em.

Then I got home to the kittehs. I do love the little (little?) bastards, fur goblins though they be. There have been times where they’ve been my anchor, moreso that I maybe even realized at the time. I ain’t going anywhere because these little shitheads rely on me, and it turns out they perform a bigger service than acting like a couple of needy, squishable doofuses. Thanks, Sam and Dean. You assholes.

Bust a Move

Sometimes what I get back for my effort is just…fun. I was looking for a particular sort of image. This wasn’t it. But I love it. In the future when engaged in theater of the mind, either my own imagination or that of prospective players and/or readers, I might not just see some storm giant or god appearing static and immobile in the sky. Maybe what I see is that giant or god busting a move. A grand entrance, if you will.

At first it just struck me as funny. I don’t tend to think of dancing beefcake. It just strikes me as muscle-bound and quite possible stiff and a bit funny. Then I recall Maori haka. Nope. Not funny. Deadly serious. As might be befitting a giant or god. Then I recall Shiva. Grim, ecstatic stuff, indeed.

For that matter, for other usages, maybe it isn’t always about dance, but just entrance. The bigger the drama, maybe a bigger entrance is called for. How does your god or giant emerge onto the scene. Are they just suddenly there, voila? Do they rage and storm onto the scene? Do they calmly fade in from mist or shadow? The sensations do they radiate? What feeling should be palpable in the air?

Here, though, it’s dance.

You’ve been served. Roll for initiative.