![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ffloShe hadn't heard it was going to snow today. She thinks of the lack of bread in the house. Does she have daily bread, insofar as she has bread every day? Perhaps not, but damn near.
She is tired. Hunger seems different. Fear seems different. Yet the same. Yet different. It is confusing what she feels, and this is part of fear.
It is no sin, and very probably not dangerous, to take a nap. Not any more dangerous than anything else is. Everything is dangerous.
Her stomach is growling. Dumb, numb, she notes that she is hungry.
She types a few disjoint sentences about herself, in the third person. Imagines the snow landing on her snowself, outside in her hat, her scarf, her previous/first pair of prescription (trifocal) sunglasses, with the open sides that seemed a little illogical but she went for anyway, and the still-not-dark-enough lenses she risked perceived peevishness to send back to have darkened further.
She sees Bert's car come down the street, pause at the mailbox but not open its window, maybe him calculating it's too early in the day, maybe him seeing a flag up on another box. Is that a flag up on another box? He curves into his drive.
Bert is a big part of what she likes about living here.
Avoiding attachment is not detachment.
She is hungry.
Someone told her this morning of someone from Austria making snowdogs. She cannot even draw a dog, she said, so doubted her snowdogmaking capacity. She could perhaps be a googlewhack on that word, but wait, no, a googlewhack is two "actual" words without quotation marks that return just the one hit. Snowdogmaking might then just be old-fashioned coining. Not very hip of her. Not very current. Not very twenty-first cent.
The male cardinal appears at the bird feeder. She hasn't seen him all winter, or in a long while. She has seen the female, with the sparrow & junco the other day. She needs better seed. They don't like this seed as much as they liked the big bag mix from the Dexter Mill that she gets mostly for the romance and impracticality of driving to a neighboring town, taking in the horsepeople's accoutrement, along with the Carhartt, the kitch-lite countrycrafts, the coyote urine, and exiting via the wooden steps with the sack of grainy burden bisected heavily across her shoulder, the alluring large blue LETTERS on its side.
The male flies off; the female appears. But at first she typed "appeals." Does the female appeal? The snow is coming harder now.
She will die any time now, or any time, or now, or sometime. This is not the time, unless it is.
The cats curling up to nap suggest it is okay for her to, but she maybe doesn't need it so now. The stomach has stopped rumbling, and maybe she will eat. The female, with its subtle strip of red, flies off opposite the direction the male took.
The snow is coming still harder now.
She is tired. Hunger seems different. Fear seems different. Yet the same. Yet different. It is confusing what she feels, and this is part of fear.
It is no sin, and very probably not dangerous, to take a nap. Not any more dangerous than anything else is. Everything is dangerous.
Her stomach is growling. Dumb, numb, she notes that she is hungry.
She types a few disjoint sentences about herself, in the third person. Imagines the snow landing on her snowself, outside in her hat, her scarf, her previous/first pair of prescription (trifocal) sunglasses, with the open sides that seemed a little illogical but she went for anyway, and the still-not-dark-enough lenses she risked perceived peevishness to send back to have darkened further.
She sees Bert's car come down the street, pause at the mailbox but not open its window, maybe him calculating it's too early in the day, maybe him seeing a flag up on another box. Is that a flag up on another box? He curves into his drive.
Bert is a big part of what she likes about living here.
Avoiding attachment is not detachment.
She is hungry.
Someone told her this morning of someone from Austria making snowdogs. She cannot even draw a dog, she said, so doubted her snowdogmaking capacity. She could perhaps be a googlewhack on that word, but wait, no, a googlewhack is two "actual" words without quotation marks that return just the one hit. Snowdogmaking might then just be old-fashioned coining. Not very hip of her. Not very current. Not very twenty-first cent.
The male cardinal appears at the bird feeder. She hasn't seen him all winter, or in a long while. She has seen the female, with the sparrow & junco the other day. She needs better seed. They don't like this seed as much as they liked the big bag mix from the Dexter Mill that she gets mostly for the romance and impracticality of driving to a neighboring town, taking in the horsepeople's accoutrement, along with the Carhartt, the kitch-lite countrycrafts, the coyote urine, and exiting via the wooden steps with the sack of grainy burden bisected heavily across her shoulder, the alluring large blue LETTERS on its side.
The male flies off; the female appears. But at first she typed "appeals." Does the female appeal? The snow is coming harder now.
She will die any time now, or any time, or now, or sometime. This is not the time, unless it is.
The cats curling up to nap suggest it is okay for her to, but she maybe doesn't need it so now. The stomach has stopped rumbling, and maybe she will eat. The female, with its subtle strip of red, flies off opposite the direction the male took.
The snow is coming still harder now.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Feb. 5th, 2011 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: Feb. 5th, 2011 08:55 pm (UTC)