beach sand

it crept home in her sandals and the folds of her clothes. it spilled and sprinkled itself around her apartment. it seemed by the end of the summer there were dunes in her kitchen and drifts in her livingroom.

the new kitten

her sister's cat was expressive. if it found you or something you did disagreeable it let you know. no warnings. no conversations. a direct approach. if you pissed it off it.. pissed... on... something you cared about. your shoes. your clean laundry. your favourite book. it didn't discern.

her sister started a new job and stopped being home as much. the cat was left alone. it did not appreciate the newfound hours of solitude. it did not crave silence and reflection. it did not want her to leave so much. so it began to express its displeasure. cleaning up pee became a second part-time job for her sister.

so she got a new kitten to see if that would help. a friend for the cat. a distraction. a companion during long lonely days.

and now she was cleaning up the pee from two cats - desperate to litter train the one and placate the other.

festival culture

she'd never been before. it was truly like another planet. half dress multi-colour painted bodies dancing in time to the pulse and beat of the mainstage. hulahooping fire wielding dancers near the drum circle. children in the mudslides. babies on blankets, on hips and shoulders, on breasts. food that was vegan. food that was locally grown. food that was gluten free. food that had names she couldn't pronounce and ethnic origins she was likely to misremember. and there were unspoken rules. who could lay their tarp where. heights for chairs. shower and bathing rituals. male and female spaces. she felt half overwhelmed and half anthropologist. she felt out of place and excited all at once. she got lost. she lost her sense of caring. she lost herself in the rhythm of the music.

sawdust

power tools scared her. she knew that if you followed instructions and took safety precautions you'd be ok. she knew it but she didn't truly believe it. she had seen a horror movie as a child where a drill was used to torture an innocent. that might be part of it. the best funny thing though, was that she had inadvertently chopped off the tip of her left index finger with an axe while cutting kindling and yet had no fear of sharp knives or blades. the even funnier thing was that the tip of her finger grew back.

socks

No matter how much time and energy she invested - counting them in the basket, again on the way to the dryer, matching them in her drawer... There always seemed to be one or two strays. Where did all the missing socks end up? She imagines a one legged creature creeping into her bedroom and
selecting it's favourites (always hers too). Could she placate it with some other offering? Would the wily sockhound never be sated?

Third time's a charm?

Tonight a few words, tomorrow more, eventually an hour a day?

Write more. Write more. You've got to practice if you want to improve and she really did want to improve.

This is possible. It will happen this time.