Long week.

There were lows, there have also been highs. I'm writing a little; mostly poetry, mostly that I'm mostly malcontent with. I still can't really remember my dreams well... it feels artificial, as though I'm shut off from them. It's a hollow sensation in the process of my thoughts, where I can feel myself forgetting the imagery soon after waking. I don't like it.

I've started a community for writers, away from LiveJournal. It's partially-live, but I need to put up some more information on the front end of the site before I go promoting it very actively. Membership for people whose work I don't know well will, at least eventually if not immediately, be on the basis of submissions that the existing membership will look at. If you're interested in potentially participating, get in touch with me. It will be open to all varieties of original work, with a focus on community, development, critique, and opportunities for publication. I'm extremely proud of the way it is coming out so far.

Also, I've never met a wine that could even begin to approach the complexity of flavors that good scotch carries. I suppose it's just a matter of my palate being better tuned to this than that... but damn. Perhaps, also, it's particular to how infrequently I drink on a general basis... preserves the magic of it. The exoticness.

I've made myself useful enough at the clinic that I was temping at for data entry that they're going to keep me on as a receptionist. I'll get a few more hours each week, and a firm schedule from now into the summer. I'm very pleased. It's a little boost to the ego that I've been able to demonstrate, cold, without instruction, superior organizational skills, motivation, and creative problem-solving, which always just sortof sound like inflated buzzwords on a resume. But, frankly, that's precisely what I've done here... entirely of my own accord, and not initially under the direct scrutiny of my superiors. I got -noticed-. It feels good.

TercetTercet

The weight of the glass in my hand.
The heat of the fire in my throat.
The ring in the sound of my voice.
The loose ground upon which we stand.
The hollow words of the old toast.
The feeling of losing a choice.

The hand that I grasp in the dark.
The desperate gasping for air.
The taste of the wine on your lips.
The searching in vain for a spark.
The lie that no one can compare.
The things I don't think I can fix.

The sad morning ache in my bones.
The dishes that wait in the sink.
The hesitant close of the day.
The message that you won't be home.
The wandering eye that I blink.
The telling myself you won't stray.

The more time we're spending apart.
The realizing that I can breathe.
The things that we once thought were true.
The still-dimming ache in my heart.
The old, broken things that I leave.
The things that remind me of you.

.