I wonder what it says about my psyche that I am always dreaming of severed heads in glass jars? They float in greenish liquid and there are nerves and arteries hanging from the neckstumps like roots and for all the world they remind me of hydroponic lettuce except sometimes they twist about in the fluid and seem to smile as if happy to be free from the burdens of daily living. I have been told that normal people dream of falling off buildings but I have never had this dream.
I went outside last night to light the barbecue grill and noticed we have monstrous, jungle-sized weeds in the backyard after all this rain and I might need some kind of metallic thing with many clawed mechanical appendages to remove them. They are spiky and awful. I think I saw some poison ivy, too. Maybe I'll just stay inside and pretend it isn't there. I feel guilty about the yard, but life has been crazy with work and transition planning for Z and literary events and racing events and weddings and baby showers and trips to the doctor and the dentist and that sort of thing. It's a miracle that the grass isn't three feet tall by now. I never intend for the yard to look weedy and neglected but somehow, it always escapes my notice until it's a godawful mess. Crud and double crud.
Let's be honest: I really suck at this whole suburbia thing.
I do, however, like sitting on the porch at dusk with a glass of iced tea and a book. That's actually pretty nice.
My poem, "The Reaper's Wife" is featured at on the Mythic Delirium website! (Scroll down a bit.) The illustration by Paula Friedlander is *gorgeous* isn't it?
Scroll down a bit more and read "Song for an Ancient City" by Amal El-Mohtar. It will leave you all short of breath and stuporous for it is unbelievably beautiful.
Life is pretty good, despite the severed heads and monster weeds, I think.
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