stretch my wingtips to the sky, tell me I won't ever fly

As I emerged from the great elm tunnel of my neighborhood this morning and the sky opened up over the Ross Island Bridge, the sky revealed of itself great hordes of jellyfish. A plop and pull of misty celestial paint, their stringy limbs suspended in flight, and I imagined what trick of windy paintbrush made this possible.

Last night was a mess. My day at work ended with a meeting called by my counterpart in another department who is the epitome of the cute Asian chick stereotype in appearance, but in personality cold as a slap in the face with an Icelandic carpelin. She mumbles in monotone while slouching petulantly into her seat, and repeats what is said to her a few minutes later, when her tech-slow thought process has caught up. That said, she was wearing some amazing shoes yesterday: white leather open-woven sandals with red inside that just peaked out and four or five inch red heels. I tried to translate between her and the finance guy, and make it seem like hers was the driving role. It worked, because she chatted me up after the meeting as we walked down the stairs.

Traffic was bad on the way home early for an acupuncture appointment, and I listened to a phone message that held subtle cues to the downfall of my mental health. I called my brother to commiserate, but later, after the appointment and an errand, I still answered the phone when it buzzed with the words "mom calling." Why did I do that?

So I was already set up to be grumpy for Last Thursday, and grump I did. After purchasing a slice of pizza at Bella Faccia I strolled the street without much interest, mostly boiling inside at the banal trappings of fashion hippies-- the crocheted hair bags in earthtones, rocks and sage, and busty fairy girls in front of the same two mushrooms. As much as I like each of those things (excepting hair bags-- never hair bags) on their own, this particular crapped-out representation was mirrored over and over to death by kids laying about the sidewalk, now younger than me and scabbier about the face than I've ever been after a fight.

I didn't walk down quite far enough to get to my favorite store on the street, but I was tempted into a blueberry-sage popsicle by a vendor of some fine, unusual flavors, and also bought some very cute spiral glass earrings from an eager artist who does custom work.

I walked as quickly as possible, given the thick crowds, and returned home around 9pm to the surprise of other-than-the-usual hungry males. Kenard I was prepared for, but there was something unsettling about being asked what I brought home to eat for my dad, who was suspiciously cheerful and had already been there for an hour. I guess he's where I get my night-owlism from. And my penchant for the utterly insane.