clickies

from the most marvelous yendi: why we do dumb things: 10 psychological studies.

seen on half my f'list: We're getting a puppy, so our children must go!

world's most interesting bridges.

Gotta run. PT and blood testing - off and away!

okay, this is REALLY FREAKING COOL

"invisibility cloak" for sound waves.

Also: insomnia sucks; you know you're tired when you can successfully nearly fall asleep during physical therapy despite the near-agonizing pain of having a recalcitrant quadriceps muscle stretched; because of that she also screwed around with the tendons in my ankle, which makes walking around annoying at best and near-impossible at worst.

Dear self: this is a bad time to search Craigslist for jobs, because you have no qualifications for most of the ones you can tolerate and there's no point in feeling worse about it. I think a nap is in order, clearly.

opinions, please

I'm thinking of entering Strange Fruit in a contest, the theme of which is "answered prayers and other tragedies." I think it fits. You? (Seriously, I want to know.)

(I had a few brilliant ideas about a piece filled with angst and cancer drugs, or a not so angst-ridden piece about leprechauns, but nothing's quite as nicely-flowing as my carnivorous bananas, which I'm kind of ridiculously proud of. I am coming to the realization that writing Serious Things on as little sleep as I've been getting lately just doesn't happen for me. But I think this is a good bit, even if the premise is kind of crazy.)

influenced by (100originalfics: parents)

Schuyler has three parents. Most people just assume that's because of a divorce, and he's okay with that: if he lets them think what they like, that's not denial, he rationalizes. He just can't be bothered to explain.

Away from home and their overwhelming, constant presence he remembers different things about each of them.

He remembers rope burns and bruises snaking around his father's wrists on Monday mornings: dark sunsets of violet and black fading through the week to a chalky yellow, standing out against hands that were paler than the bread dough they kneaded. He remembers spattered acrylic rainbows on ragged jeans, erratic blonde hair clipped back with barettes filched from Schuyler's sister's dressing table: eyeliner, nails chipping half a dozen colors, raiding mom's silk shirts, more boots than some of Amsterdam's smaller shoe stores. Schuyler's school friends and teachers confused him for mother: he just shrugged it off with a smile.

Mother was white coats, lab goggles and the smell of formaldehyde, unseen worlds within microscopes. Frozen dinners - a brilliant biochemist, but she still can't cook. Short-heeled boots and converse sneakers. Two degrees: late night consults across continental lines. A small wrinkle of concentration between the eyebrows. Green eyes, never made up. Bandages, encyclopedias, long fingers riffling through an atlas or dictionary. Exotic treats from Hong Kong bakeries.

Dad? Square glasses and rainbowed hair. The smell of leather jackets, the scratch of a pencil on squared-off paper. A thick Germanic accent. Hands throwing erratic balls of light toward the ceiling as his rings dipped in the yellow pool of the reading lamp. A tabby cat named Schrodinger weaving around his feet. Physics journals with dog-eared pages: a determined stride, a quirky smile and a love for haggling at flea markets.

He thinks he has Dad's long, lanky frame and hair that's truly blonde underneath it all; mother's eyes and father's artistic temperament. The rest he's not sure of.

twits

( all back here. )