Every little thing she does is magic.

Old and fun. :-)

In the end

it's me driving myself.

I frighten myself, I berate myself, but in the end, it's me calming myself.

Go on. Go on.

Second chance

Back turned, he leans into the refrigerator. The walls peel the way they always have, slowly. His jeans fit the same way -- too big.

"Do you want a drink or something?" he offers.

Or something, you think. I'll take one of those.

-Why does everyone have to die?

-If nobody died, you wouldn't be here. There'd be too many people. The extras would happen accidentally. Unhappily.

-Maybe.

A sea change

If someone had described it to me in other terms, I probably would have been more interested much earlier. "It's like getting paid to stalk and then write about it."

I may indeed change my mind, as we young people are apt to do. But something real is happening. I have something that will be shaped and cultivated and challenged, but it is something existing, fundamental, ready.

I posted the picture to say, "I am not that girl any longer." But then I pause. Of course I am. And then some.

While talking to Christina and Regina

I miss my life there right now.

I know what I want. I know who I want with me.

Sense of menace

is my new idea for a theme/direction of the Honors Thesis...since I've done, of course, so much work on it already.

Also, GRE = over with = fantastic = relief that I didn't devote my life to studying hefty amounts of information that would most likely not show up on the test.

The sun came out, suprisingly enough.

Forty-seven words

A pale figure runs from the reeds of the marsh, across the road, and up the hill into thick trees. White against night.

-Did you see that? I ask.

He shrugs, turning the car around the corner. –It’s just a ghost.

Behind us, a phantom quietly dies.

GRE Preparation

I decided to see what I was up against whilst I relearned standard deviation and probability, and thus swung onto the FAQ's.

"At the start of the test, you are presented with test questions of middle difficulty. As you answer each question, the computer scores it and uses that information, as well as your responses to preceding questions and information about the test design, to determine the next question. As long as you answer correctly, you will typically be given questions of increased difficulty. When you respond incorrectly, you will typically be given less difficult questions." -- gre.org

So when my questions become, "y = 3x. x=1. Solve for y," I'll know that I'm doing really well.

I like your style, GRE. Until, of course, I take you and get my scores back.

Helicopter lights and bad dreams

What happened to the happy news?

What creature...slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Tedium

I drive home, mindful of deer and police cars, and suddenly remember that I had been gray before. A fitful, tiring gray.

I had forgotten because the gym is a safe place. Writing, too, is a safe place, until it is shown to others beyond my friends and oftentimes classmates.

I tell myself that I tried, am trying now. I am looking everywhere and not hearing a sound.

But maybe I have no reason to mope. It may have been too easy for me up until now.

After all, you're cleared to run.

Big doings in life:

-Cleared to run today! "If you can run two miles without it hurting, then you're healed." I'm sure a few roundoff-back handsprings will also be essential to the final stretch of the healing process...

-Watched movies recently (clearly, I'm a new woman)

-Traveled to Cortland, encountering additional thunderstorms and witnessing (somewhat, when Mom and I weren't busy laughing at people) my dad make his comeback from Pileup Menace to Cycling Champ.

-Reunited with several fantastic former teammates from Spins

-Got a real job (just kidding...that will take quite some time, if ever) (working on it, however)

-Showed the world what Wading River's all about ("world" = non-viral link = click that bad boy)

-Finished a story

"Good deal, Gallagher," as Mr. K would say.

"If Angela was here,"

I tell Brian as we wait for a car to pass us before we walk across the road, "we would have made a run for it." Of course, I've had a bit to drink, which makes the idea even more appealing.

I imagine the Bri standing on the curb, shaking his head, as Angela and I take off over the asphalt. An SUV approaches. Indifferent, Angela's new ACL and my leisurely-healing metatarsal would scamper joyfully through the night, almost as if Pontillo's awaited us down the darkened roads. We would likely begin to giggle loudly and make a Facebook-related comment, or perhaps even a Ross Borden reference to "innate curiosity." The night would be officially concluded only after we'd checked each other's away messages prior to sleep.

As I check Angela's away message now from where she rests in the 845, I raise my Poland Spring to August 25th, to the beauty of receiving "offline" messages, and to Cortland's floor.

Only my father

would cause a bicycle accident on North Country Road that I happened to pass by on my way to the gym.

I cause a scene by envisioning (out loud) a volcanic Bald Hill, flapping my arms in a pre-historic-bird-fashion (nods to Brittany), discussing rumors of pregnancy by homeless men and "bringing one's A-game" with my lovely Seven, and dancing to no music, without any reason at all. All following each other in quick succession.

I suppose it's not so strange, really. But someone has to catch the attention of those who have been treading slowly for too long.

2:14

I think I am ready to write.

If she had indeed

named me Jennifer, I would have certainly spelled "Jenn" with two "n's." Or "Britt" with two "t's," etc.

But when I read the occasional mispelled "Dianna" that is meant for me, I think to myself, "Oh, no, now that's excessive."

12:50am on Route 25A

At the red light, a silver car slides up next to me on the left. Slowly. Slipping against the dashed line. I stare ahead, wondering if the driver is looking at me.

At the green light, the car turns on the speed -- the way I knew it would -- and flashes a quick signal before coasting ahead of me.

I have the feeling that I've been brushed against, a little too nearly, and that a smirk was tossed before he moved on.

So much water so close to home

Falling, cascading, hurtling, everywhere. If I pause quickly in just the right place, will I find myself dry, protected by a ring like bullets, like beads, like rain?

Elementary school and on

They always thought that you were serious and I was laughing.






They didn't know that you were the one who was making me laugh.

Post-trauma

The sky is sunny, but I swear I hear thunder.

A terrible beauty is born

The moon hangs red tonight.

"Was that -?"

"Yes." One flash of lightning and then another.

We stand together on the sidewalk and look up at the sky. Sizzling purple. Horizontal slashes. Angry scrawls on a recently passive sky.

But somehow this electric canopy inspires your confession of fears. "I have the feeling that something is going to go wrong," you say in the car. Large droplets hit the windshield. "Here. In the world. Everywhere."

I wave to friends in the next lane, grins pressed against the glass as they sign to us.

"I wonder if I'm missing a warning," I answer.

Under the roof of a well-lit house, she smiles at his concern. "Let's turn the lights off," she replies. She is calm, gently mocking when the lights no longer turn back on and explosions from the sky shatter the night. "If it's the apocalypse, at least we're all together. If it's the rapture, we won't have time to worry, anyway." Comfortable by candlelight, she stretches on the sofa. She understands religion.

I do not recognize the allusion and feel that I should. I hear "together" and think of my mother, who sits quietly on the same corner of the couch, worrying.

A sudden ricochet from the retreating storm. We are not so potent as we believe ourselves to be.

Later, cars slice through puddles and pass on, indifferent. The lights of stores and traffic gleam as always.

The moon hangs red, dripping from a violent birth.