There's a volcano-mountain in central Oregon, as Jürgen informed me last week, that's apparently swelling. It's getting a "bulge" at a rate of about one inch per year. It's one of the "Three Sisters" mountains. The sisters are named Faith, Hope, and Charity. I don't know which one is the swelling one. According to Jürgen's article, it will erupt within our lifetimes. Not today or anything, but within the next couple of decades.
Nobody gives volcanoes a choice.
It's never really a matter of choice.
NOTHING IS A FUCKING MATTER OF CHOICE.
Woke up at 4:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Typed an essay and read three or four chapters of a book before I could close my eyes again for an hour or two.
Forgot my bus pass, my keys, and my bookbag today, at different times. As the memory bone is connected to the olfactory bone (just ask Tom Robbins), my sense of smell is particularly strong today. I asked a kid about thirty feet away from me if he was wearing Tommy Hilfiger aftershave. Before that, I'd been griping about "the stagnant odor of musty cornbread." (I find that phrase particularly pleasing to the tongue... kind of like the word "deciduous...") Yesterday, I announced the scent of a pesticide which contained ammonia, which apparently nobody else could smell. Not, all in all, a bad talent, if people would take more care of what they smell like, and what their surroundings smell like. But along with it is a complete loss of short-term memory. I want to snap RIGHT the hell out of that.
Somebody slipped a Modest Mouse patch underneath my door today while I was out. I don't know who. But somebody loves me, it seems.
Tonight is Halloween. Will go somewhere quiet, I think. Somewhere within view of the mountain, so that I can listen to its wisdom.
~Helena*