how lovely are your branches
actually the branches are still, and barely perceptable, against the night sky. they're black on dark gray, amid touches of the streetlamps' dim sepia; the light from the screen i'm typing into blinds me a little extra to it all.
i've had not a drop of coffee today, and here i am. and there you are, whenever you are there. hello to you, there and then. your here and now.
it's not that i enjoy this timelessness in the middle of the night, i was just writing. and it's not that it feels safe. it's not that any more, though i remember that, and a sense of peace associated with the window of safety remains. really i don't know what it is, but i know i'm held by it. i fight leaving it. eventually i do go gently from it, but many times it's only after a dogged quiet determination has kept the diminishing consciousness going 'til the sun's not long from coming around again.
brian's mother died. it feels confusingly surprising that she's the first of sandi's or brian's parents to die. they are more or less my contemporaries, after all, s & b, and here it is approximately forever since i lost mine, and i didn't lose them all that early, compared to plenty.
"here is your goodbye kiss, dog!" said iraqi journalist muntazir al-zaidi as he threw his shoes at bush. juan cole points out that al-zaidi had reportedly covered the u.s. bombing of sadr city last spring, suggesting that may be part of why he feels so strongly about bush as a "killer of iraqis, killer of children." cole adds: "The frequent US bombing of civilian Iraqi cities that are already under US military occupation has been one of the most under-reported stories of the Iraq War."