Monkey business.

Once some sociobiologists made magazines of the monkeys for the monkeys to read.
All the monkeys enjoyed the magazines.
They liked most to look at the pictures of the high status monkeys.

Send me to my knees.

My grief over Zena and all that it overflows to and reminds me of - damaged friendships here, mainly - was still fresh: tears were still falling when I first heard the knocking. It took me a while to get down the hall to find Yama at the door. Our yoga teacher, come to see me and my knee.

How swiftly cheering it was to see her!

We talked for a bit. She declined tea. Plans were made - there's a Japanese dinner tonight with Rashi and Jean at the Bugsplat Family Centre. Yoga next week, despite my knee. Yama has modified versions of all the asanas.

Angelata & Gray.

The sun is setting and the verandah is squint-eye bright.
Gray says;
You know I don't do that.
Angelata says;
I want you to know who I am. Otherwise I don't believe you.
Gray says;
If you want me to know who I am, tell me who you are.
Angelata says (aloud);
I'll write the first letter on my name on your forehead...
Angelata says (in secret);
...in blood.

Hurting.

Our knee hurts and it hurts to watch Trouble figure out there's no solution to anything.
:/
There's no way to win, only ways to endure.
She's so brave and we're so proud of her.
Is this what it's like to watch your daughter have to learn stuff the hard way?

I think it might be.
thea

Hungry hamster.

Nothing I've posted to dp this morning has made it to the list.
*sigh*
*shrug*
Oh well. I guess it doesn't really matter.

What's my scene??

Calypso wonders 'what's my scene'?
It was such a fantastic night at bellydance. Calypso misses the bellydance template Janice made. Calypso wonders where to post - here or at Had a Dolly. Or should she have her own Dance Journal? Or Art Journal? Or what?
What's my scene? What's my scene? What's my, what's my, what's my scene?

Thea stomps on grapes - they were sour, anyway.

It was fun when we were all friends, or friendly.
Now it's like that guy, the guy in movies based on Stephen King novels, or in movies influenced by movies based on Stephen King novels ... you know ~that guy~! The guy in checked flannel, in his thirties, who stayed in the small town in Maine and who lives for the visits of the old gang and keeps wanting his buddies to shoot pool at Old Red's or something. And we all know what happens to that guy. Oh, I understand the longing. I understand nostalgia far too well.

In other news, yay Trouble, well done sweetie.
The peacock head looks gorgeous. I shall add you to our links.

francesca: *cough* I think what Thea was trying to say was "I shall instruct Francesca to add you to our links"
thea: *sheepish look*

Blank pages everywhere.

With all these places set up for us to write; places not yet defining themselves; we're paralysed by choice. Where shall I write ~this~? Or ~this~? And despite the choice Trouble still has not claimed a space for her Trouble at Work posts. She seems to have set up another xanga blog called Tuppence. Perhaps she might consider taking it down and making it again as Tuppence in blogspot? Is that a possibility, Ms Trouble? I know you are being such a good tomboy and trying to give all us angsty Castle types plenty of room, but we miss your posts, darlin'. And want you to have a space too.

I do hope everyone is well.

Turbulence.

Attention Polly, this is your captain speaking. We are currently passing through some turbulence. Please remain seated. Attractive women will soon be serving you double shots of Johnny Walker.

Retrospective identification.

Perhaps it is that we identify ourselves retrospectively, rather than in the present moment, as if looking through the window of a train racing through fields of bright yellow rape, or wheat, or corn and saying, there "I" am, for I am Thea and Thea means "wheat".