A Reprise

My favorites: sweet potato gnocci spumoni

I do believe that one can always control the volume and pitch of one's sneeze to a certain degree. I've never heard anyone else say it, but I do think so. Last night I cleaned out my sewing room, which is likely the most disturbingly disorganized mess I've made, and I found my blue journal. I was so excited. My last entry was 10/12. I believe I lost it for that long. The fact is I remember several weeks ago when I was rummaging for some craft supplies I had stacked a great deal of mess on my desk. It all collapsed to the side, taking my journal along. I never cleaned up the mess - I have no good explanation, but I remember feeling discouraged when it happened. I have felt very overwhelmed about that room, and last night I finally found the energy to give it a try. I also discovered a host of insect shells and webs beneath my desk. It would seem someone has been very busy in my absence. I will admit I often see spiders in my sewing room - and I ignore them. If no one told

I am remembering the joy I felt one occasion this week as I drove to my lunch break. I am always so excited and happy when it is time for my break. One hour for myself, sweet moments to spend my best waking hours doing something worthy or fun. I thought of how my daily joys are real, how I live and breathe in these moments of feeling so grateful to be alive, and able to do the things I dream of doing, of sewing, creating or writing stories, telling stories to the world. When I was a child I never dreamed of such a thing as the Internet. I cannot believe I live in a time where it is possible for me to do the things I do. It is a strange time, now. A squirrel just scurried across the porch to press his small hands against the window and stare in at me. I still believe, as I did and as many children do, that he was trying to tell me something or otherwise guide me. I believe that animals are sensitive and intelligent in ways humans can never dream of being. Our sense of superiority to o

I decided to renew my efforts to shop for pants at the mall. It has been at least a year and a half, possibly two years, since I have been to one, so it was a little of a culture shock, as has been in the past. My first destination, Express, seemed to have joined the trend of assigning female names to different "fits" thereby eliminating the need to use the word "slim" or imply its opposite. In addition they have increased their sizing such that I am now a size 0, rather than a 4. I have for years mail-ordered my pants from Victoria's Secret. I am "Kate." The ever-common Christie fit has a bit more "room" as the name suggests the thirty or forty something. What a sad day it will be when I find the "Amanda" fit with a bit more room and know that my day is done. I wanted to buy some jeans from Abercrombie but could not because I was too deeply embarrassed by the greeting wall mural. I actually flushed with embarrassment and teared a l

"A woman is essentially a being of retirement and seclusion, and her nature becomes deteriorated by any employment which brings her before the public." This is all so fascinating. It seems like everything I hear and see everyone do is connected to the forgotten past by invisible threads. I won't be able to stop thinking about it now. Location: 19c quote

"The sturdy helpmate could fight Indians, kill the bear in the barn, make two pots of lye soap, and do a week's wash before dinnertime and still have the cabin neat, the children clean, and a good meal on the table when her husband came in from the fields... She was the Madonna of the Prairies..." Oh, yeah. Can it be that I am the Madonna of the Laboratory? Lol.

It sat in the truck overnight.

But she had still not yet seen the wolves. She was only too grateful to find the little coffee shop where she had had her interview with Dr. Thorn-and it was almost surprising to encounter people that smiled in return at her, or took any notice of her. "The world of humans," she said to herself, "is a strange and varied one. It must be the myriad of professions and experiences that makes them so different from each other." She took a slow, lasting breath as her eyes combed the cafe menu, written in pastel-colored chalk. "I am not doing this for fun. I have to remember that. When I see the wolves it will be different." The coffee shop was bustling with life at noon. Wonderful aromas lifted from the coffee roaster, while the oven was redolent with smells of rising dough and sugar. She took a seat by the window and watched two young women around her age having a chat and sharing a plate of pastries. She felt an unfamiliar pang as she remembered the specia

... makes me feel like a teenager again ... ! I listened to Emilie Autumn on the way home, and it made me feel so brave.

"Dr. Thorn," Cassandra uttered, at a loss. "It is good to see you again." Dr. Thorn lifted a brow and returned to her paperwork. "It is good you have come. We are terribly understaffed at the moment. Are you willing to work overtime?" "Of course," Cassandra said quickly. She had been hoping to have some evenings in the laboratory when no one else was there, to communicate with the captive wolves and reveal her identity to them. As it was, the wolves were in constant danger of revealing their true nature to the scientists that studied them. If their great intelligence was discovered, the ambitions of the institute could change-instead of seeking to eradicate the species, the scientists might instead wish to exploit them for human gain. Dr. Thorn's cell phone vibrated on the desk between them, and she lifted it to one pallid cheekbone. "Scarlet-" the tinny voice reached Cassandra's ears. "Have you drunk-" "I'

I love the clarity of prose, and the quick pacing, though I find I have to go back sometimes because I skipped a word or two and literally have no idea what is going on. It is so interesting to learn past modes of religion. As ages have passed, our views of religion have changed so much. I cannot really consider the present mood of it here without shuddering. At least in past ages it mingled with scenes of nature and attitudes of passion. Now it seems we linger between the dregs of the Second Great Awakening and wishy washy agnostics. We are afraid to believe in something, really involve ourselves. I keep downloading the books she references. I don't know where I will find time for all of this. I realize with each preface I skim how lacking is my history education. I find I still have a great desire for the eighteenth century.

I did not mean to do this . but I couldn't sleep last night. I found myself at 2 a.m. downstairs in front of my computer,  beginning Green Summer . So here it goes. Thus far, word 980.