n: vb: the spice of imagination
Thank you, thank you, thank you! Named number one in the world at the Tanith and Rabbit Readers’ Awards, I was chosen by readers from among several categories including handmade, destinations, surgeons, airlines and chocolate fluffers. I am so pleased to have won first place! Set on one of the largest reefs of information in North America’s Atomic Atoll, all my teeth enjoy beautiful ocean views and direct access to the latest in impromptu government hand-outs. Nowhere else in my bloodstream is there such exclusive light, flame, and soft, crackling fur. I am home to private villas, with secluded whispering nail beds and overly lush tropical greenery, (installed primarily by only the best fashion designers), and waterfalls set above each eye. I am eco-friendly, and bathe daily in the clear, protected waters of my ergonomic ocular lagoons. The freestanding bamboo arches of my feet, the cocoa butter oiled hinges of my elbows, and the high, airy rafts of my ribs and hands are complemented by spacious ceilings, curved moldings, and various personal breakthroughs, allowing for a variety of personal entertainment and dining options. Among the largest vacation destinations in the world, my emotions are detached, expansive and equally luxurious. For more information, visit your nearest rope bridge and dial my number on your favourite telephonic device. Operators will be waiting soon.
When she danced, I fell in love all over again. The handles fall off my doors, leaving me open as my skin to her hands, as the keys I carry in my eyes click my locks open, letting her in. She could reach in past my ribs, stain her fingers on my blood, and all I could do is lean in. I am a massacre before her, astronomical, strained, prostrate. Her fingers spell my name…. Okay. Sorry. I have to stop writing a moment. There is a freaking dragon in the elevator. I can hear it. Banging. My co-workers can hear it. It is there and getting closer. ….
RECEIVED AT EIGHTEEN THIRTY:
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And so though fweete Y haf been bytten by the vypr and now my hyaert turnd greene. Yt myt haf been wonderfull thiff hard case oft worn, thefe lips nown as thine, exept for the esoteryc maladeis of the flesh, how burdonsomme, how unkynde. The mappe Y draw to thee ys lyk a mappe of my own hart, though stagge and horn collyde, all ventrycles and photographyc, vayns most vayn and darke besyde. “Wayt for me.” he said, one hande holdyng myne. “Y cannot.” y cryd, unwylling, my voyse madde of paynt ynd turpentynne. Y ftay payned he was untrue, that Y was not ynoufe for hym, that hys luft drove hym to dysmay. Y do not fee myself in nowe, infstead Y am unglued, ynvysyble though comewat maye. Does thyse thynges contynue? Fhouldde Y ftay?
via Dan Curtis Johnson aka crisper:
Let’s face it. You’re in a blog rut.
Most of the time, you write about more of the same kinda stuff that you usually write about.
Maybe it’s your day-to-day life, the stuff you did. Maybe it’s topical news response. Maybe it’s short fiction. Maybe it’s re-linking random stuff you see on the internet. Maybe it’s LOLCAT porn. (I hope it’s not LOLCAT porn.) Maybe it’s here on LiveJournal, or it’s over on Vox, or Blogspot or Blogger or Blogblog or Postablogablowablog, or WordPress or Facebook or FacePress or FacePlant or maybe it’s just your Twitter account. It’s what you’re comfortable with, I know, I know…
…but why not try doing something different, just for a day?
Two weeks from today, Tuesday January 27th, is Lewis Carroll’s 177th birthday. Carroll, you’ll recall, wrote about a girl who fell down a rabbit hole and found herself in a place where all the rules had changed. In two weeks, on Lewis Carroll’s 177th birthday, you should do the same.
That’s right: the 5th Annual Rabbit Hole Day is coming.
When you wake up on the 27th, instead of writing about your usual work and school and politics and friends and news and stuff, experience life down the Rabbit Hole and write about the work, the school, the politics, the friends, the news, the stuff that you find there instead. Travel through time. Turn into an animal. Flee from assassins. Talk to your goldfish. Conquer Greenland. Sprout some extra limbs. Learn how to walk on water. Marry an insect.
Take a break from the Every Day and write about your Rabbit Hole Day. Your normal life will be waiting for you when you get back.
——
For consideration: as always, distribute widely
So I’ve decided it’s time to try and land a husband. Does anyone have any tips? I’ve been doing my best to memorize the Social Issues Resource Centre’s Guide to Flirting, but I’m not sure about what other sorts of presentation I should go for. The ceremonial make-up for instance. It’s all well and good to know which direction to tilt your eyes, but if I don’t know what colours to paint them, what good will it do me? Where do you go to learn that stuff? Are there courses? Or is a mother-daughter kind of thing? Or should I go to a priest? The rabbit fur brushes felt heavenly soft, but I took a peek at an eye-lash curler in the temple this morning, damn thing looked like a torture instrument from a high school play, too over-the-top to take seriously. And then there’s clothes. Always clothes. They’re such a riot of language. What best says, “I’m responsible, but a minx in the sack”? I’d hate to come across the wrong way with a bit of mis-placed plaid. It’s like skirts, all the holy books say that short skirts are effective skirts, but how do you keep your knees from freezing?
My band played a stadium for the first time last night. It was great! We Totally Rocked. Standing up there, looking at all the people… Rabbit hole! Rabbit hole! I felt a shared sense of risk and trust, as though everything felt perpetually threatened, like everything might crack, but everyone was comfortable with it, had accepted it. Effing magical. And the gig! Judith, our new contortionist, was fantastic, ripping solos out with only her toes!! Bam! Totally unscripted! Right to the eyes! Our choreographer pitched a fit, but whatever.
I woke suddenly this morning from dead monochrome dreams of smooth, terrifying men without fur. My children were still asleep, curled like rabbits in the hollows of my body, but I lay there awake, staring at the curved arch of my ceiling, trying to calm myself down. I’m supposed to be plugging into the collaborative network at night, but lately, I just haven’t been feeling up to it. Since Elsei was born, the piped in psycho-sedatives just haven’t been as fun.
Anyway, the merciless faces of these men were so strange that I wish I had better skill with a stylus, so I could show you. There was no emotional awareness at all, but they were devastating, utterly irresistible. Instead of soft black noses, they had fleshy beaks, like fish might if they’ve been stretched over a rack, and their eyes were odd, little wet globes pushed into their faces like marbles into clay. It was dazzling, how stark they looked, how blinding, as if they were a pivot from which something heavy could swing, industrial, heavy, and cold.
