it's wintering where i am already, a sort of ice mist descending into the valley and seeping in through my bedroom window. in truth, i left the house today bundled all to hell, but for vanity's sake i braved the chill for a few to snap these out in the yard. because! (well, primarily) i needed to to document the supreme sexiness of my new (used) perfect leather jacket. it's a lovely, lovely shade of grey and butter-soft, from doma leather, which is just a haven of droolworthy leather goods. the great blessing of working at a consignment store is sometimes the exact thing you've been searching for comes to you, and it used to be $600, but then somebody got a weird stain under the collar, so you get it for mad cheap. every time i put it on i feel 3000x more ready to face the world. almost all my armor feels soft and looks tough. i like it that way.
i'm feeling like a lady knight today. a certain lioness, perhaps? this particular outfit is self-referential as motherfuck, but in a faery tale way. most of what i wear is about a feeling i had when i was very small, or a mythology i wanted to inhabit, just translated a little.
the earring i'm wearing is a special one. the pair was my co-worker's -- i complimented her on them maybe a week or two ago, they were some of her favorites. but yesterday she came up to me holding this one, orphaned from its mate, and gave it to me. she noted that wearing mismatched earrings is pretty much my m.o. and told me she was happy it could still get some love and use. maybe it seems like a small thing to you, but i'm real honored to receive something that somebody loves but can't wear anymore, and quite touched she noticed and remembered an odd little thing about me like that.
it reminds me of pomegranates and their adjacent tales. it's a talisman. it's a gift.
i've been rereading margaret atwood's alias grace and it's doing some things to me. the first time i read it, two years ago or so, i did it in one afternoon. i was voracious like once upon a time. coming back to it, though i have the urge to swallow it python-style, i'm doing it in bursts. reading it feels sorta like getting gut-punched while somebody continuously and gently breathes into my mouth, filling my lungs more full than i can on my own. it's not just the story, nor is it the superb writing alone (though obviously those things are heavily in play). it's the way it's nudging me. to write and write more. by now i'm solidly in the habit of writing some crumbs of poems on scraps and notebook corners every day, but it's been a long time since i've wanted to write something big. it's edging its way back in. i'm not saying i'm hard at work on the great american novel or anything. it's just... i'm feeling pulled to try to weave something. something intricate, like bigass unicorn tapestry on a castle wall intricate. it's just a lil flicker of a flame right now, but a warming one. who knows. maybe i'll find myself some kindling.