and maybe the most we can do
is just to see each other through it
hour follows hour like water in a river
and from one to the next
we don't know what each hour will deliver
we just call it like we see it
call it out loud as we can
and then afterwards we call it all water over the dam
maybe the moral higher ground
ain't as high as it seems 
maybe we are both good people 
done some bad things
i just hope it was okay
~Ani di Franco

The computer lab is possibly the best thing that's ever happened to me. :)

They (they being the occasionally evil gods of computer repair) are taking my laptop for at least a week (perhaps two or three-- we won't think past that). So I won't be able to blog as often, or come on MSN very much-- but I promise to update Family Matters for Nitzers, and to stare aimlessly at the wall the rest of the time.

. . . this warrants profanity. I will deal with this in a mature fashion (i.e. not breaking down and sobbing over the line to the repair guy in sheep voice that I need to talk to my friends, please, and if I can't play aimlessly with Photoshop, I'll go mad). Maturity. Right.

I was going to complain that I never got any eccentric referrals, that all the search engines ever sent hapless seekers for was Jane Austen and Moulin Rouge fanfiction, and multiple requests for Alan Rickman tangoing-- and-- lo and behold:

snog+bridget+jones
(I can't quite wrap my mind around this one. It's logical, but there's something not quite right about it)

pre-raphelite poetry
(I raise my eyebrow at you, sir!)

bohemian handbags dolls
(. . . . may I suggest eBay?)

romantic night ideals
(Since there is so much romance in my life)

love letters
(I am not the definitive guide to poetic romance, people!)

pictures+of+people+actin
(. . . not I. I gave up theatre a year ago)

curly sweet little girls
(This one rather frightens me)

I'm carrying on a love affair with hats.

This isn't secretive-- it's full-blown charcoal grey wool with a velvet ribbon on Mondays, 30's-esque camel-coloured on Tuesday. Enormous satin bows and utilitarian cloches (pink and blue-- we do equal opportunity for gender-typing here), tawny whole-hair-covered caps, leather newsboy from the 60's, and white flannel berets. A Breakfast at Tiffany's hat, huge brim and bow, next to an Ingrid Bergman hat that sinks too far over my eyes, but it's too gorgeous to leave behind. Wore my Winnie the Pooh bucket hat yesterday, just because it's too sweet to ignore. And from the thrift store, we bring you the crowning glory (pun unintentional), a wedding hat, beaded and veiled within an inch of its life, that I've not yet summoned up the courage to wear.

In other news, found a splendid new read earlier. Hats off (pun intended this time 'round) to Miriam.

Today, tired of seeing pale green paint line the walls, I seized a handful of old Vogues and last year's calendar, attacked various pictures with the scissors, and finally lent some character to those infuriating surroundings. Now, advertisments of Little Black Dressses and Saks Fifth Avenue surround shopping bags on my door. CD inserts line the ridge of the wall where it meets ceiling-- Enya and Guster and Ani di Franco-- my sister refused to let me tape up Chicago. Photographs of London are scattered everywhere, in between my Moulin Rouge poster and the adverts for the Saks perfume line. Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn smile coquettishly from the DVD pages pasted on the walls.

Then I sat down to listen to Norah Jones, strangely relieved by the process. I need my character to be apparent in my room, in between a battered poetry book and unworn red tennis shoes. This small square of a living space is finally breaking itself in, gliding smoothly over my curves, and learning the smell of my skin. I've pricked my fingers prying out old nails, and dripped paint on my favorite t-shirt. Pages torn from favorite magazines, dollars spent on trinkets (chipped teacups and fake pearls and an old, pale pink parasol), and books crammed together on the shelves. All trying to make a space in the bed.