March 23rd, 2006

restless [moobytooby]


Have been forcing myself to do work this morning. Am just so not into it.

Am really not into doing anything. Have skimmed the flist and commented on very little. (One off-the-cuff thing hit my buttons, but I don't have the energy to engage.) Still have comments I should respond to. I realized today I have an entire week's worth of NYT eHeadlines sitting still unread in my Inbox. I have a big ole To Do list including (but not limited to) tags, Memories, and updating the Inara/Kaylee masterlist.


I have lunch with Linda-from-Finance [who recognized my extension! I was impressed] over in Spangler by the fireplaces upcoming, so that's good.

And I have a Cat. Even if she is a tease. And there will be more CSI viewing tonight (up through Lady Heather's debut, god willing).

Ari: high-quality Kaylee fic archive. Thought you might be interested in reading/reccing/submitting. (Item directed at people who are not Ari as well, of course.)
hipster me


Creating file folder labels for umpteen documents I had a brainflash about revamping part of the setup of my recspages.

Edit: Less than an hour later I'm done with the revamp and have commenced putting aforementioned documents into folders -- thereby learning that I'm gonna need to make more labels. (Can I go home yet?)
prophecy girl

[Lent: day 23/40]

Jesus at the Laundromat
-Kim Addonizio

The last crystals from the box of All
spill into the Speed Queen.
Tube socks, cotton drawers
with an asterisk design in blue,
a few frayed robes, graying now,
a sweatshirt saying GOD IS LOVE.
Jesus loads his quarters
and eases into a plastic chair
by the Change machine.
Each year it's harder to remember
why he returned.
Sometimes he knows
it was only nostalgia, and not
a second chance for anyone.  Now
he longs for home.  In heaven
things stayed white.
No one had to suffer flourescent lights
or rattling dryers,
the sour pool of urine by the pay phone.
Jesus watches his clothes revolve,
suds hitting the surface
of the curved glass.  He sighs
and looks around,
surprised he's not alone.
The chairs are filled
with old bodies, some snoring,
some sitting so still
he's tempted to touch them.
A woman curls under newspaper
near the sign that reads OPEN.
The attendant drags a map
the length of the linoleum,
streaking the dirt.

from Sweet Jesus: Poems About the Ultimate Icon (ed. Nick Carbó and Denise Duhamel) p. 165-6.