Spent the day with my friend Alice.

I love Alice Munro. Every time I read her I'm inspired to write a short story. I think it's because she's literally so good, that reading her is like being taught the perfect form. She makes it look easy. I Highly recommend this book, I'm about halfway through. A bit sad and cynical at times, but always entertaining, and so, so Canadian.

Might be resurrecting some of my abandoned plot lines. Stay tuned.

Lady with a bald spot.

Weekend.

Have had a really good couple of days. A lot of visiting with friends, and lazy times at home. Went to see Julie and Julia last night with L and K. Amy Adams somehow looks like she belongs in my family. Like, genetically? A bit crazy, maybe. I love Meryl Streep and now really want to cook amazing french foods. Still working on mastering the art of "cooking," without any qualifier but we'll get there.

Lightselectric

Lightselectric
Originally uploaded by _stringsong

This is a test.

Turtle

I was relearning photoshop and did some very basic colouring in. It's been so long! I forgot how time consuming it is. I'm going to be putting up some more of my sketches over the next little while. Just for fun.

Lame Limericks

Silly Linny
On a lark
Got married to a question mark.
She liked his bite, she liked his bark,
but couldn't take him to the park?

Hamburglar

In line at McDonald's
buying a hamburger
I lean over the balcony
to people watch.
Over the partition
I spot a lady with a bald
spot.
I'm above her
she's below me
but only geographically.

My Cat is a Conch Shell

My cat is a conch shell
When I'm quiet I can
hear
waves
from the ocean of purrs
rolling in
purr, purr, purr
pure, pure, pure
noise waves
from inside the fur
Of my cat
the conch shell

26

Dear noisy annoying lighter clicker on the bus behind my head this morning half of me wants to test out my patience and keep quiet the other half wants to test my SPEAKING UP about it.

You;

are the superlative.

And then

What should I do?

Funeral Blues

Funeral Blues
by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.