As the poet says

Transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is born.
For once I am reminded of the power of my sex. The launching of a thousand ships from the look in her eyes, curves of a graceful arm shatter an empire, her tears salting the ground.
My motherly grief denied I turn to my other soltice; the avenging fury of a lost angel, wielding my rage like a scythe, laying waste, ravaging in my despair. Full aware of my childish actions, I am as powerless to stop them as those in my path.
I, Hiroshima.
I am a woman scorned.
Hell hath no fury.

Nothing left

I wrote a huge post about how frustrated and disappointed with myself I was for my complete inability to make anyone, myself included, happy, and accidently deleted it.
The irony is reaching critical levels.
I'm going to bed.

futuere stercus

What awkwardness caught

What strange awkwardness, caught in my throat; this cough is never enough to pluck it, steaming in the cold air, from the bottoms of my lungs. It was transplanted, as am I, into a place it did not belong in; I wonder if it feels as I, my mouth far too wide, too open, the glitter of my necklace heavy on my clavicle, the scents in the air all merge like the sepia on antiue photos. I am surprised to find I am old enough for them.

Last night, while fetal in the cold, fingers sticks of lead, back a curving branch of beef on the butcher's slab, I dreamt beneath my fluttering lashes; my work partner and I, there was fear, a puddle of urine, and a sensation I wish I was not familiar with, of standing on one's head, surrounded by a honeycomb (but not sweet) of metal that sacrifices itself around me. Now we, four who are loved, dearly, deeply, travel home in this tiny precarious aspect, at speed our ancestors never dreamt of, in a tiny pool of lamplight, on this round globe of earth that cannot even acknowledge us, how much we need it, it's tiny passengers.

Mental invading forces

It has been a long time since I have had a sleep-over in someone else's house like this, I suppose. It is a strange feeling, crashing
(ooh yes crashing, since I have already broken something, the washer, damn knobs. Now I must glue it, and wrestle with the confession. What an awkward situation to be in, the strange complete familiarity of living in someone else's house but not even knowing how to address them.)
in a new house, no, a new home.
Many times I have stayed with family, even lately house-sat, but I adopted those area with such complete ease, having seen them many times, usually with the comfort provided by the aura of someone who has known me since diapers were haute couture.
Yet now?
These stairs are unknown to me, the noises all alien.
I'm moving through it like a tourist at a museum.
Staring at things like the consumers in Ikea, my fingers itching to touch everything, even the chairs I can't pronounce.

All this strangeness has done one good thing; The added adrenalin has spurred me to do some things I've been meaning to get done, so far I've completed three loads of laundry and read half-way through a book I've stared at for a week.
And now I'm surfing through garbage on the internet.
Perhaps this could be good for me?