So sweet, the air is at night. I sneak out late bearing on early; walking past the honeysuckle bush. Past the roses, past the gate, past the world I know. The air at night, is ever so sweet.

But I’m not smelling honeysuckle. I’m not smelling roses or the faint drifts of sea-air. I’m not breathing this air. I refuse. Holding my breath, I am haunted by landscapes I no longer know. Streets with different names. Sounds and scents and images I no longer know. My past is glittery, a mirage at midnight. I no longer know. I no longer know.

There is a line in the pavement, down the middle I walk. Deep in the night, the safest place is the middle. In real life, the safest place is the middle. Always. Deep in the night, alone; transported to an air that smells of jasmine and cedar and the same ocean drifting past me. Only warmer. Always only warmer.

I am holding my breath. Tonight I am holding this sweet summer air in my lungs; afraid to exhale.

I’m not ready to dish details. But I have to say, I’m getting really excited about this.

UPDATE: Yeah, not gonna dish in the comments either. But I appreciate all the interest. And I’m not a TEASE. I prefer to think of myself as a flirt. Happy Friday all, go be happy this weekend.

Good News: you’re still younger than me!

Happy Birthday, IZ.

The last two weeks have been anything but restful. Somehow, months and months ago, I said “Yes” to being the coordinator of Day Camp 2008. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, “What was SHE thinking!”

Honestly, I don’t know. These moments are blurry upon reflection. I remember saying “yes” but I don’t recall how I got to the place where I’d even consider it. Don’t get me wrong; Day Camp itself was amazing, especially where the kids were concerned. But organizing anything this large and complicated (and drama filled, oh my, oh my, oh my!) isn’t usually on my list of things to do. I shy away from these kinds of events because they tend to consume every waking hour. I like to think my plate is well balanced—I don’t have a big urge to fill what blank spaces are on my schedule. Being busy for the sake of being busy isn’t a mantra I ever intend to pick up. These sorts of endeavors find any and every blank space and claim it. Filling in your time until you can’t breathe. I like air.

In addition to coordinating the din, I was also staff photographer. I wish I could show you more photos. But, you know privacy of minors, yada yada yada. All their parents signed waivers, saying we could use their photos for publicity, but I seriously doubt my blog was what they all had in mind. Next year I think I’ll spend a day with a distance lens… these kids could see me coming a mile a way and boy do they all like to pose! But I did manage to capture a few portraits that take my breath away. I’m editing a slide-show for the kiddos and I think I might get a few prints made up to send off to parents. It all just screams, CAMP… and when you’re dropping your kid off in the morning, it has to be nice to have some photographic evidence that your child LOVED their time. Because if their children are anything like mine, the answer to “So, how was your day?” is nothing but a “Fine, grunt grunt grunt!”

So, I took two weeks off from this blog to do the Day Camp thing. In the process, I’ve neglected everything else. This house is falling apart, I’ve not stepped on my treadmill in AGES, and my poor vintage store has screeched to a halt. This week has been about making all that better, somehow. I’m still not ready for real words, here. But I’m getting there. I’m trying not to obsess. This is post 999, maybe I’ll write real words for 1000?

Speaking of obsessing, this will make Vicki’s professional flags go flying: Ok, so I’m completely enamored of this song. I’ve listened to it dozens (read: hundreds) of times. I don’t watch it, since there isn’t a video. When you hit “replay”, the little knob at the bottom of the video, slides back to the beginning. Right? So, if you listen to the song once and hit “replay”, the little knob slides back in perfect sync with the amazing downbeat that begins the song.

I love that.

These little moments of unplanned serendipity are all around you. And if you’re not too busy, they sometimes reveal themselves to you. There’s beauty in the chaos, people.

Clearly, someone did. This makes me laugh. From the ever lovely Beancounters, via Graph Jam.

As of July 7th at 9 am: 105,059. (There were 2000 alone waiting in my  moderation queue—just in two weeks!)

Spam, it’s a glorious thing.

For the last week, IZ and I have been having the same conversation via IM:

Me: I should blog.

Me: I have nothing to say.

Me: I should really blog.

Me: whine whine whine, I should really blog.

IZ: Why don’t you go blog, sweetie?

That’s a very good question. Why not, indeed? Truth is, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. Two weeks ago the tendons in my neck seized up and I lost most of my range of motion. A week later, when the muscle started to spasm, I went in to see my massage therapist. Even she couldn’t get the block to release. It’s complicated and more than I want to blog about—but I went and compounded the situation by falling 4 days ago. Yep. One moment I’m standing on the staircase landing in my cute shoes and summery skirt. The next, I’m in a fetal position on the entryway floor. There was enough time between those two moments for me to utter several expletives. I saw black, I felt the floor give way and after that, I don’t really know how it happened.

I’m pretty sure I landed in such a way that IZ ,standing on the landing I’d just left, could see my underwear. He knows better than to touch me when I’m in pain. He just hovers on the edges gently inquiring about my viability. “Are you still breathing? Do you have a pulse? Should I call an ambulance?” Yes, yes, *sniffle* NO! The dog is less intuitive. Sophie kept sniffing my head like I might be fresh kill. Me, I’m just crying on the floor because I hate the sensation of falling even more than the pain. I’ve always been a faller, and IZ is convinced I fall more than I should. I think I’m just not graceful. Even after all these years, I’m still landing in odd positions with my skirt turned up exposing my knickers for all who care to see. In this case, it was just the dog.

The fall did unblock my neck. Weirdly, I can now turn my head again. But all these minor injuries have made me tired and unfocused. It’s amazing how much concentration it takes to NOT do something you’re used to doing without thought. I’ve found myself unmotivated. And as such, the only writing I’ve been doing is whining in IM at poor IZ.

But tonight he said something different. And I had one of those fashionably late light-bulb moments.

Me: I should blog.

Me: I have nothing to say.

Me: Why FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE don’t I have something to say?

IZ: Maybe you should take a short Vacay?

I love it when the boy talks valley to me. So I’m going to do as he suggests. Yep, you thought there was no quitting you, but. . . there is. I will be back on the 7th. Of July. Next month. TWO WHOLE WEEKS. Oh, my.

This should be killing me; I’m exactly 5 posts from 1000. But it’s not. Of course, this blog would have hit that number two months ago if I hadn’t deleted 50 posts in the archives. Let’s not dwell on that. And we would have hit that number last November if I could import 2003’s posts that are trapped in some platform IZ talked me into when I said, “But I want to use something groovy, like WordPress.” We really won’t dwell on that.

After 6 years of blogging, you’d think that number would be higher. I’ve always been an underachiever. Looking at my commenting stats, I’m not alone. This little blog, which sits at nearly 1000 posts and oodles of comments, has attracted a ridiculous number spam. In fact, the spam bots have been out posting your comments 1000 to 1. You all should be embarrassed to be outdone by mere technology.

However, there is a way to redeem yourselves: post a comment and guess how many spam comments this blog will have received by July 7th when I return. The person who comes closest will be getting a nice little prize from me. But I’m not saying what just yet. You’re going to have to play along to find out.

Do me proud, people. Seriously. And IZ, you don’t get to play and NO HINTING at numbers. Don’t even think about telling them the number is well over 10,000. uh… erm… Anyhow. . .

I’ll be back on the 7th. Don’t you dare lurk on this one. I have stats, people—I can see YOU! It would be very unpatriotic to let the spam bot win. So for freedom’s sake, post your best guess.

See you next month.

UPDATE: I’m scratching my head about the lack of numerical content in the comment section. So, just to be sure it wasn’t me, I ran my blog through a “What reading level is your blog?” utility and it said “First Grade.”  Hmm… funny. Depressing, but funny.

So, Question: What part of “leave a guess” wasn’t clear? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. People who refuse to play along… uh… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will be something. So. . . uh. . . there!!

Cake? Anyone?

First, thank you for all your lovely comments. I’m going to break tradition and not answer them individually. I know! But I have to tell you, some of you made me blush! I probably should have closed comments on this post—not because I wasn’t interested in what you would say. But because SOME of you are incorrigible and I knew I wouldn’t be able to answer you without compounding my color. So. . . I’ll just say this, “Thank you, all!” IZ and I both have enjoyed reading all your well wishes.

I will also say this, the lyrics quoted at the bottom of that post are from the criminally neglected ELBOW. Most of you who read this blog with any regularity will know that I’m prone to pepper my posts with lyrics. This is nothing unusual. I admire gifted lyricists like some of you admire poets. Their ability to write with such power and yet, with such brevity takes me—and like most people, I think those memorable lines wander around my consciousness, taking up residence in a land unknown to them. Alien bards drafting the outlines of my narrative.

Who doesn’t have a soundtrack to their life?

But I have to tell you, it’s rare in the genre of music I listen to most, to find a band that can do it all. A band that hasn’t sold out to the 3.5 minute formula of radio fare. Intelligent lyrics rarely are written. But when they are and then married to astounding musicianship—you have to sit back and wonder, “Where the hell are the critics?” Seriously? I’m not kidding when I tell you this band is criminally neglected. It’s shameful.

And it’s not at all unexpected. We live, after all, in a world that has elevated the likes of Paris Hilton to the stature of Icon. My generation just keeps giving ground. We’re afloat in more sugar; it’s no wonder we’re comatose.

So, ELBOW. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of them. But I’ll warrant that if you listen closely, you won’t be able to stop. And you’ll be telling someone you know, someone like me, someone who appreciates amazing words coupled with astounding beats, “You’ve just got to listen to this band.”

And you’ll be adding words to the soundtrack of your life. Because, really, they’re just that good.

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