party pikkies

Twenty minutes of putting together a post of the pictures from the birthday party and Adrians puter eats it. *growls* That having been said, onwards anew!

I’ve been going through pictures today. There’s been a few heavy on the shutter days that needed to be sifted through. The birthday ones are pretty amusing. They’re all a bit dark, but I like particularly how the wood panel walls of the house make a few of them look like fashion photography.

what will all the pretty girls wear at all tomorrows parties

It tells of vast expanses stretching backwards over time

Two objects at equal distance
Acting as if they care
Does weight follow mass in this instance?
Oh, E equals MC squared

Tomorrow I go in for X-rays. I’m beginning to be warily familiar with that shielded room. I’ve been told you’re not supposed to be able to feel them, so perhaps sometime I’ll learn to not feel that hot flash when it hits me. That under a second split moment of burn. Suddenly feeling skin in sun for too long next to a window. I’m not looking forward to the cold metal table or the heavy pad that sits uncomfortably on the chest and belly. There is a particular whirr in the darkness that’s unpleasant. Lying cold on the chilly table in the halfdark room with someone cowering behind a halfwall.  Perhaps I’ll luck out with a bit of sterility. “Here are your bones and the eggs we’ve killed.”

I found you by accident in a photgraph today

Part of me imagined the crinkle in the corner of your eyes when you smiled into the phone. I could hear it. Me, here, writing about you again. This mystery man that I only picture certain parts of. Your eyes because that’s what I see of you when I look up from your chest. I can see your hands as well, how they’re such a different colour than mine, so much more interestingly sculpted. I used to watch my hands when I was little. My fingers so much longer than my palm. Hours of driving in a van with only so much patience for staring out the window at trees. I would frame the world whisking by on the endless road that we lived on. Flirtations of elegant angles copied from nature. I remember once trying to stand like a tree while my mother at the wheel took corners on the highway that knocked me over. My father was asleep in the front seat and it was so dark, I couldn’t see the plywood floor my white hands caught me on. Only the glow of the tapering fingers and flesh.

Now that my fingers fit, I don’t like my hands half so much.

I haven’t hung up yet. I’m typing this letter by letter, slowly, mostly with one of these hands. I want to know where you grew up, what your favorite flavour of ice-cream was when you were five. If oblique is a compliment or an acknowledgement of perhaps how I’m trying to hide in plain view of everyone who reads this.

You’re asleep now, or on the edge of it. As I am as well getting up tomorrow I should try to dream too.

Anyone up for flying a kite Monday??