Style

I seem to have lost my eyelashes. Noticed it as I recovered from the flu. They were never lush, but they existed. I can feel the short, faint brush of them, but they are invisible.


The design of this site is due to Moira. Far from wanting to update it, I would like some of the new gadgets without changing the look at all. I think she did a superb job, the font clear, the slightly grey'd black color of the text, against a slight cream background, easy on the eye. The chocolate brown for high lighted text. Nothing flashes, nothing distracts or sparkles. No busy ground that stays still while the body moves, no squee hopping bunnies or flittering snow. A home, not a posh hotel. I want to communicate, not dazzle.

Many sites with all those bells and whistles keep me away. Bright white text on all black backgrounds are the most common. Perhaps they have intelligent, insightful writing, but I am as barred from finding out as I am from eating at a restaurant with ceiling fans or fluorescents making the light flicker. My eyes ache, my stomach turns, then the migraine threatens. When someone I've read for years changes to something that keeps me away, I feel I must let them know why. Not to have them change it, but so they know why I cannot return. Would not want them to think it was anything they wrote, since I couldn't even read it.

I could follow along on the RSS feed, more or less. I've tried doing exactly that, but I still feel like I'm looking in through a window, not allowed in to join the conversation. Irrational, yes.

Here in the Blogosphere, I am remarkably normal. This is the only place I really fit. I don't mind at all that I'm not welcome in all corners. On one blog I once enjoyed reading, I never got any kind of reply to my comments, and I was often the only comment, or one of two or three. She replied to all the others. After a while, I assumed I had no place there, and deleted the link. Her space, fair enough.

Up at 0300, awake, mind racing, obsessing about the rude awakenings in my life. When I got caught for not doing my 3rd grade math homework, because I'd never learned my times tables, and learned hard that problems had to be faced and solved, not ignored. In my last year of the theater degree, after the supposedly pro forma audition for -- something, and the whole class was accepted, except for me and one other girl. Slapped down, I knew I needed a different path. This past year, when wild accusations were made against me, and although I was not the problem, I was the only one with the solution. Jarring lessons, the need to wake up, not complain or excuse, dream or wish, nor even hope. I once heard the story of Pandora's box explained, the ending is not a happy one. Hope staying is the way it works as an evil. The other evils spread, hope works it's poison by stringing us along instead of taking our lumps and becoming aware.

Bitter truth, sharp, piercing, acidic to scrape away the delusions and accretions and cancerous self comforting lies and evasions. Good strong beer, black tea, Turkish coffee, hot chili to counteract the cloying sweetness. February in it's season, to be loved for itself.