...There beneath the blue suburban skies." --Penny Lane, The Beatles.
Huh, and all this time I thought Penny Lane was a girl's name. But no--it's a place in England, and apparently a well-known place. I guess I never really listened to the words.
But now that I paid attention (for once!) I can say that that feels like home. I mean, with the barber, and every stops to say hello, and little coffee shops and nurses selling poppies and such. Although, here it is usually daffodils.
Nothing too interesting (or sharable) is going on. Life full of drama, and exploding with situations, which become rather tiresome. I like drama--where no one gets hurt--but situations make me peeved. Although, as I told someone recently, my life is very "James 1" at the moment--you know, the part where he says, "Consider it pure joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials." Ooh, baby, am I bursting with "pure joy" now.
But really. I feel like, not a lot of hot butter (we do have to be so very careful), but more like gac. You know, that stuff that was big in the early nineties, that came in bright colors, and was something like silly putty, only slimier. I think I'm glow in the dark, with sparkles. Infinitely floppy and quite stretchable, but I do tear eventually, and I don't change colors. I can be peiced back together again, but it takes some effort, and gentleness--because if you're too rough, I just ball up and turn into mushy-goo, so unattractive. Not particularly strong or useful or even decorative, but mostly relaxing and fun, with just a hint of mystery in my depths.
Oh, and the sparkles are for extra beauty.
Randomness keeps life ironic, and, after all, we like irony, yes?